Then they turned into the oak-panelled hall. A curtain of old Flemish tapestry was lifted at the farther end, and Mrs. Courtly, as lithe as a girl of fifteen, with a garden hat, an apron, and a pair of scissors in her hand, ran towards them.
"Welcome to Brackly! So glad to see you both. And you have brought fine weather. It snowed yesterday—I was in despair. You like my little home? I am so glad. It is not like your grand English places, but the view is pretty, and the house comfortable, I hope."
"There is comfort for the eyes, and comfort for the mind, I see," said Grace, looking round her, "as well as for the body."
"Those were wonderful cobs that brought us from the station," said Mordaunt. "I never sat behind better steppers."
"You shall sit behind something better to-morrow, Sir Mordaunt—one of our fast trotters; but come into the parlor, or, as you would say, the drawing-room."
She lifted the portière again and they entered a long apartment, with deep bay-windows, at the farther end of which was a daïs, raised upon three steps, where stood the piano. From this "coign of vantage," the view over the sand-hills to the sea was more extensive; and here some rocking-chairs, and a table covered with books, showed that it was a favorite corner with Mrs. Courtly and her friends. On the walls of this room were a few good Italian pictures, not too many; one or two fine plates of Maestro Giorgio, and Spanish lustre ware, with silver-bound missals and ivory caskets, in an old English glazed cabinet; in another some rare books. But the place had not the air of a curiosity-shop, nor was the first impression you received one of stupefaction at what it must all have cost. Thoroughly comfortable chairs, the last new books and magazines, the score of "Parsifal" upon the desk of the open piano—these touches of modernity and cultivation "up to date" disarmed the Philistine who might be disposed to charge the collector of these treasures with æsthetic affectation.
"How charming it all is!" exclaimed Grace. "I never saw a more delightful 'lady's bower.' It seems as if nothing but what is refined could live here—nothing but sunshine enter those windows!"
"Ah! it is twelve years old; it has already had its share of storm and showers." She sighed, and then, turning, said, "I see you are looking at my portrait, Sir Mordaunt. It is by Michael Angelo Brown. Do you like it?"
"No, I think it is horrid. It doesn't do you justice, Mrs. Courtly."
"And I think it masterly," said his sister.