As I told Hephzibah, the little copy of La Rochefoucauld and the miniature of Ambrosine Eustasie are the only things of mine—my own—that are here, besides all my new books, of course.
I sat down in the straight-backed sofa. It has terra-cotta and buff tulips running over the mustard brocade. The gilt part runs into your back.
Antony sat at the other end.
A very fat, rich cushion of "school of art" embroidery, with frills, fell between us. We looked up at the same moment and our eyes met, and we both laughed.
"You remind me of a picture I bought last year," Antony said. "It was a little pastel by La Tour, and the last owner had framed it in a brand-new, brilliant gilt Florentine frame."
Suddenly, as he spoke, a sense of shame came over me. I felt how wrong I had been to laugh with him about this—my home. It is because, after all these months, I cannot realize that Ledstone is my home that I have been capable of committing this bad taste.
I felt my cheeks getting red and I looked down.
"I—I like bright colors," I said, defiantly. "They are cheerful and—and—"
"Sweet Comtesse!" interrupted Antony, in his mocking tone, which does not anger me. "Tell me about your books."
He got up lazily, and began reading the titles of a heap on the table beyond.