“You have a very well-trained maid, I see,” the large plaid continued, “that is to say, for the country”—with emphasis, to show me that there were obvious deficiencies, only she was willing to make allowances for them. “It’s the first thing I always notice in a house. We are used to such excellent service—most excellent service, aren’t we, dear?”
Dear agreed, but not very heartily; she seemed to ponder for a moment before she said her customary “Yes.”
“That is one reason why I always hesitate about leaving home.” (How I wished she’d hesitated a little longer! The sun was getting behind the fir-trees, and I did so want to start watering!) “You have some garden, I see, but it wants planning, doesn’t it? I wish you could see ours at home; it would give you some ideas. We have a man in occasionally; but we always superintend him ourselves. I’ll tell you how we have it arranged. In the centre is a square lawn, and in the middle of this we have a round bed with scarlet geraniums in the centre, and a ring of calceolarias round them, and then outside that, at the edge of the bed, you understand, all round, you know, we have lobelias, little blue flowers, you know. You’ve no idea how bright and effective it is. And then in the border all round the garden by the fences, we have standard roses about a couple of yards apart, and a row of scarlet geraniums. It’s so bright, and doesn’t cost so much when you buy them by the dozen.
“Your ceiling is very low, isn’t it?—still, for a cottage, it isn’t a bad-sized room; and I see you’ve made the best of it with your little bits of things put about.” I do wish you could have heard the charming, indulgent condescension with which she said “your little bits of things”! “Though I don’t think I’ve ever seen yellow walls before—very quaint, of course, but—er—rather peculiar. Don’t you think so, dear?”
Dear said she did. But I don’t know why, seeing that she was carrying about more yellow on her mustard person than I had in the whole of the house!
“I wish you could see our lovely dining-room at home,” the plaid continued. I murmured inarticulations, as there was a pause where I was evidently intended to say something. “It has a dark red paper on the wall. We have just furnished it with fumed oak. I think fumed oak is so artistic. We have a most handsome sideboard that will only just stand across one end of the room. I don’t mind telling you that it cost fifty pounds originally, but as the people to whom it belonged were a little unfortunate, we got it—well, we didn’t give quite that much for it; but you’d never know. It was just as good as new. And we have aspidistras and a beautiful palm in copper flower-pots—really exquisite works of art they are; and they go so well with the fumed oak, don’t they, dear?”
By the time I had been taken over their beautiful drawing-room, we had finished tea—happily, for I already saw a beautiful best bedroom suite looming ahead.
Having made a most excellent, not to say solid, meal, the voluble one shoved her chair back and said—