“About equal to Teufelsdroch's room, isn't it?” he said, smiling. “Everything united in a common element of dust.' But, really, after the first terrible day of your absence, when I wasted at least an hour in hunting for things which the tidy domestic had carefully hidden, I could stand it no longer, and gave orders that no one was to bring brush or duster or spirit of tidiness within the place.”
“We really must try to get you a larger room,” said Erica, looking round. “How little and poky everything looks.”
“Has Greyshot made you discontented?”
“Only for you,” she replied, laughing. “I was thinking of Mr. Fane-Smith's great study; it seems such a pity that five foot three, with few books and nothing to do, should have all that space, and six foot four, with much work and many books, be cramped up in this little room.”
“What would you say to a move?”
“It will be such an expensive year, and there's that dreadful Mr. Pogson always in the background.”
“But if a house were given to us? Where's Tom? I've a letter here which concerns you both. Do either of you remember anything about an old Mr. Woodward who lived at 16 Guilford Square?”
“Why, yes! Don't you remember, Tom? The old gentleman whose greenhouse we smashed.”
“Rather!” said Tom. “I've the marks of the beastly thing now.”
“What was it? Let me hear the story,” said Raeburn, leaning back in his chair with a look of amusement flickering about his rather stern face.