“Do not forget the sentiment,” he called out after them. “Remember it is a charity.”
The malgamite workers were left to the care of Von Holzen, who had made all necessary preparations for their reception.
“You are a cleverer man than I thought you,” said Roden to Cornish, as they walked over the dunes together in the dusk towards the Rodens' house. And it was difficult to say whether Roden was pleased or not. He did not speak much during the walk, and was evidently wrapped in deep thought.
Cornish was light and inconsequent as usual. “We shall soon raise more money,” he said. “We shall have malgamite balls, and malgamite bazaars, malgamite balloon ascents if that is not flying too high.”
The Villa des Dunes stands, as its name implies, among the sand hills, facing south and west. It is upon an elevation, and therefore enjoys a view of the sea, and, inland, of the spires of The Hague. The garden is an old one, and there are quiet nooks in it where the trees have grown to a quite respectable stature. Holland is so essentially a tidy country that nothing old or moss-grown is tolerated. One wonders where all the rubbish of the centuries has been hidden; for all the ruins have been decently cleared away and cities that teem with historical interest seem, with a few exceptions, to have been built last year. The garden of the Villa des Dunes was therefore more remarkable for cleanliness than luxuriance. The house itself was uninteresting, and resembled a thousand others on the coast in that it was more comfortable than it looked. A suggestion of warmth and lamp-light filtered through the drawn curtains.
Roden led the way into the house, admitting himself with a latch-key. “Dorothy,” he cried, as soon as the door was closed behind them—the two tall men in their heavy coats almost filled the little hall—“Dorothy, where are you?”
The atmosphere of the house—that subtle odour which is characteristic of all dwellings—was pleasant. One felt that there were flowers in the rooms, and that tea was in course of preparation.
The door on the left-hand side of the hall was opened, and a small woman appeared there. She was essentially small—a little upright figure with bright brown hair, a good complexion, and gay, sparkling eyes.
“I have brought Mr. Cornish,” explained Roden. “We are frozen, and want some tea.”
Dorothy Roden came forward and shook hands with Cornish. She looked up at him, taking him all in, in one quick intuitive glance, from his smooth head to his neat boots.