"I shall be only too pleased," Geoffrey murmured.
"Then come along," Mrs. May said gaily. "If you are fond of a good cup of tea, then I have some of the most perfect in the world."
She led the way into the old-fashioned drawing-room, which she had rendered beautiful with flowers. The stiff furniture looked stiff no longer. The hand of an artistic woman had been here and the whole aspect was changed.
"You should have seen it when I came here," Mrs. May smiled as she followed Geoffrey's glance. "It was like a condemned cell. And yet there are things of price here. A little alteration and a few flowers—ah, what a difference flowers make!"
She pointed to her own floral decorations. The room was ablaze with them. And they were all scarlet.
There was not a single bloom of any other kind to be seen.
"They match my style of beauty," Mrs. May laughed. "I never have any other here."
"You do not care for white flowers?" Geoffrey asked.
"I abhor them. They suggest beautiful maidens cut off in their prime, dead children, the tomb, and all kinds of horrors. I would not have one in the house."