Mrs. Nimick's felicitations were always couched in the conditional, with a side-glance at dark contingencies, and the Governor, smiling at the familiar construction, returned cheerfully: "I don't see why any one should want to deprive you of that privilege."
"They couldn't—they couldn't—" Mrs. Nimick heroically affirmed.
"Well, I'm in the saddle for another two years at any rate, so you had better put in all the rejoicing you can."
"Whatever happens—whatever happens!" cried Mrs. Nimick, melting on his bosom.
"The only thing likely to happen at present is that you will miss your train if I let you go on saying nice things to me much longer."
Mrs. Nimick at this dried her eyes, renewed her clutch on her draperies, and stood glancing sentimentally about the room while her brother rang for the carriage.
"I take away a lovely picture of you," she murmured. "It's wonderful what you've made of this hideous house."
"Ah, not I, but Ella—there she does reign undisputed," he acknowledged, following her glance about the library, which wore an air of permanent habitation, of slowly formed intimacy with its inmates, in marked contrast to the gaudy impersonality of the usual executive apartment.
"Oh, she's wonderful, quite wonderful. I see she has got those imported damask curtains she was looking at the other day at Fielding's. When I am asked how she does it all, I always say it's beyond me!" Mrs. Nimick murmured.
"It's an art like another," smiled the Governor. "Ella has been used to living in tents and she has the knack of giving them a wonderful look of permanence."