“Miss Fielding, my dear wife is in there. Will you enter?”
But before Elfie could answer, and indeed while Vittorio was still speaking, Alberta herself came out, and taking Elfie in her arms, kissed her on both cheeks, saying:
“Welcome to the greenwood, Elfie!” and drew her into the room.
It was a spacious apartment, with a wide fireplace. Over the fireplace was a richly-carved mantel-shelf. In the wall above there was an old fresco painting. A wood-fire burned on the hearth. Each side the chimney were tall windows, reaching from floor to ceiling.
Every part of the room was dilapidated, and not by the gentle action of time but by the merciless desecration of war. The beautiful figures in the carved marble mantelpiece were chipped and broken off. The fresco painting was scraped until its subject could not even be guessed at.
The glass in the windows was in many places broken and replaced by pasteboard. The gorgeous historical paper that had once covered the walls now hung in strips.
And the room was almost entirely unfurnished; floor and windows were bare of covering. In one corner stood a rude, temporary bedstead, the work of some guerrilla carpenter; and on it was laid a mattress and pillows, with the redeeming accessories of clean sheets and blankets. There was a rough table, supporting a tin basin and a stone pitcher of water; with a clean towel laid over them. One low chair and two or three rude three-legged stools completed the “conveniences” of the room.
Alberta led Elfie into this room, took the pillows off her bed, and put them on the chair, one on the seat and the other against the back, and made Elfie sit down and rest her bruised and tired frame.
“Alberta, had you any hand in this?” said Elfie, bursting into tears.
“In what, dear?” inquired the guerrilla’s wife, who was now stooping over the fire, bringing the brands together with her naked hands, because she had no tongs.