“Not at all,” said Mr. Brumley. “I hate my afternoon’s walk as a prisoner hates the treadmill.”
“She’s such a nice old creature.”
“She’s been a mother—and several aunts—to us ever since my wife died. She was the first servant we ever had.”
“All this house,” he explained to his visitor’s questioning eyes, “was my wife’s creation. It was a little featureless agent’s house on the edge of these pine-woods. She saw something in the shape of the rooms—and that central hall. We’ve enlarged it of course. Twice. This was two rooms, that is why there is a step down in the centre.”
“That window and window-seat——”
“That was her addition,” said Mr. Brumley. “All this room is—replete—with her personality.” He hesitated, and explained further. “When we prepared this house—we expected to be better off—than we subsequently became—and she could let herself go. Much is from Holland and Italy.”
“And that beautiful old writing-desk with the little single rose in a glass!”
“She put it there. She even in a sense put the flower there. It is renewed of course. By Mrs. Rabbit. She trained Mrs. Rabbit.”
He sighed slightly, apparently at some thought of Mrs. Rabbit.
“You—you write——” the lady stopped, and then diverted a question that she perhaps considered too blunt, “there?”