As Andy stood there, staring blankly at the dust and straw, the tasteful appearance of his dining-room seemed quite suddenly to be a very small thing—and he had thought it so tremendously important.
“We will put your sideboard into the dining-room, then, until we find a better place for it,” he said.
“Well, that is good of you—though it’s an ornament to any room,” said Mrs. Simpson, brightening at once. “We must make some arrangement by which it becomes your property altogether if I die first,” she added, in a burst of real gratitude.
“No,” said Andy, driven to asserting himself at last by the idea of being saddled with the sideboard for life. “No. To that I will never agree.” He paused. “But there’s no need to talk about dying at present.”
Mrs. Simpson dried her eyes, folded her hands, and spoke with almost her wonted tranquillity.
“You never know. Anybody would have taken a lease of Mr. Simpson’s life.”
“I am sorry I never knew your husband,” said Andy, resuming his professional manner.
“Well,” said Mrs. Simpson, “I don’t suppose you’d have seen much of him if he’d been here. He didn’t like the clergy. Not that he had anything against them, but he didn’t like them.” She paused, then, wishful to avoid offence, she added: “It was just a matter of taste. He never could eat oysters either, and they’re a delicacy, as everybody knows.”
“Of course,” said Andy solemnly, his face grave but his heart light with laughter, and the dolorous chanting of the underworld forgotten.
Life was a splendid thing—like the spring morning—and something glorious must be round the corner.