Life is all a matter of adaptability. Given the qualities of kindness and a tolerant disposition, it is not difficult to be happy and to give happiness. In the case of large-hearted people love develops naturally; and Esmé and George had known one another a long time and intimately; they were good comrades when they married; no feeling of strangeness or shyness marred the ease of their intercourse. Even when they returned and took up their residence in their new home it was all pleasantly familiar. They had chosen the house together, furnished it according to their mutual tastes: there was not a corner of the place, or a thing in it, they had not inspected together, discussed, disputed over, and finally come to agreement about.
And Regret was there to welcome them, the faithful watch-dog which had been Esmé’s constant companion since the day when, as a puppy, John had placed it in her arms. She stooped down to pat the dog, which bounded out of the house and down the steps to meet her, jumping up and licking her hand.
“He’s a bit overwhelming in his attentions,” George remarked.
He despatched the coloured boy, who stood grinning on the stoep, to assist with the baggage, and put a hand in Esmé’s arm and drew her into the house. Everywhere there were flowers; masses of roses in bowls, and long sprays in taller vases of the crimson passion-flower. Esmé stood still and looked about her with pleased eyes.
“Rose has been busy here,” she said. “It looks lovely, doesn’t it? George, it’s a dear little house; and the garden is wonderful.”
She stood by the window, looking out on the cool green of grass, on the blaze of colour from the flower borders, on neatly gravelled paths. Here, too, there were roses; the green of the lawn was patterned gaily with their petals which the soft, warm wind had scattered wide and blown into little heaps and again distributed these in a pleasing blending of colour; the path was covered with them, sweet-scented, and newly scattered by the breeze.
“It looks festive,” she remarked.
“It looks as if the boy had better get to work with a broom,” George replied.
“Prosaic person?” she said, laughing. And added: “Let them stay. It’s a sweet disorder, anyhow.”
He stooped to kiss her.