"And there she is going to stay," said Mrs. Blake. "Because in her way, and though she could never know it, Mrs. Brace-Gideon has been a fairy godmother to this family."
"Indeed she has," said Mr. Blake.
When Portia went upstairs to look at her own round room in the turret, she screamed with delight.
"Mother, how did you know I wanted pink?"
"All girls want pink," replied her mother sensibly.
Just under the curving open window a giant rhododendron had put out hundreds of bouquets of flowers, delicately tinted: not quite white, less definite than pink.
"How lucky that they should turn out to be that color instead of the usual magenta," Mrs. Blake mused, sitting on the window seat and leaning her arms on the sill. "How lucky, really, about everything."
"I know," Portia said, staring dreamily out over her mother's head at the green lawn, the green orchard, the green woods beyond.
Their mood of quiet delight was shattered by a tremendous outburst of rushing waters. It was Foster trying out the plumbing to see if it would work.