The terrace garden would be a great show in June. And the Poor Boy had no difficulty in closing his eyes for a moment and so seeing it.
The Poor Boy, privileged old friend that he was, entered without ringing, and started through the ground floor of the house, stopping at times to admire a mantel-piece, a ceiling, or a painting. Lord Harrow's new hothouses being in full blast, there were flowers everywhere, and great logs of birch roared and crackled in all the fireplaces. The Poor Boy peeped into the dining-room and drew back, his eyes almost drunk with mahogany, and gold and Spanish leather. Under a table in the hall stood a great silver punch-bowl in which water was kept for Don, the spaniel, to drink. There were stags' heads on the walls, and on each side of the stairway stood a splendid suit of Gothic armor. One suit was inlaid with enamel, black as ebony, and the other with red gold.
The Poor Boy lifted his voice and called up the columned wall of the stair:
"Anybody home!"
Lord Harrow's daughter leaned over the rail. She had a very white face and very wonderful red hair. Her way of speaking always reminded the Poor Boy of pearls falling from a string one by one.
"Joy Grey's just come," she said. "She's changing into outdoor things. Do you mind waiting?"
"How is she?" asked the Poor Boy eagerly.
"Oh, she's white and tired after all she's been through, poor duck; don't let her overdo at first. Where are you going to take her?"
"Aren't you coming with us?"
Three pearls fell.