"Well, you wouldn't have said that if you'd seen it as those people left it. When I went back to Kirklamont, I told Greta, the hideous bareness—oh, it would never do! But she simply insisted on my going to bed." Lady McIntyre smiled at confession of that helplessness which for long years had, after her beauty, been her strongest card. "Greta said everything would be all right. You had arranged about the silly permit, and the very next day she came down, all by herself, and just took hold."
Sir William glanced at Napier, as he asked his wife where Miss Greta was now.
"She's closing up Kirklamont. That is, she has closed it up. They're coming at five forty-five, Greta and the children and Miss Ellis. I've come to like that Ellis girl. And I believe Madge has, too, though she won't say so."
Sir William had been walking about, opening doors, looking out of windows. "Seems the very thing. Capital view, too! I congratulate you, my dear."
She beamed, "Don't congratulate me. It's Greta."
"Even the chairs are just right!" Sir William sank down in one by the open French window.
Lady McIntyre laughed, delighted. "It's your own chair! out of the library at Kirklamont."
"Never!" said Sir William, staring down at the arms, first on one side and then on the other.
"Greta said you'd be glad of your own special chair when you came home tired!"
"Well, she's right." He abandoned himself a moment to the embrace of his old friend.