He swung open the lift-gates and Grace stepped out.
There, outside her door, as he had said, sitting on a small tin box, with an open basket beside her and something that looked like a little black fur muff cuddled in her arms—cold, tired, travel-stained but quite cheerful—was little Miss Culpepper!
CHAPTER XX AN OLD ROMANCE
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Carling, don’t be vexed with me!” cried Miss Culpepper, rising and fluttering towards Grace. “I’ve been fretting so about you being here all alone, and now I’ve had the good fortune to let the cottage for three months, and all the money paid in advance, I felt I must come straight up, without asking your permission. And—and I’ve brought Dear Brutus too. He’s been so good through the journey.”
“You darling!” cried Grace, and just hugged her, kitten and all. “Come in. How cold and tired you must be! And, oh, how glad I am to see you!”
Indeed, there was no one in the world, save Roger himself, whom she would have welcomed more gladly at this moment than the quaint little woman. It was extraordinary how her very presence dispelled that tragic, unutterable loneliness which had always hitherto assailed her when she returned to this her solitary nest, so lovingly prepared for the mate who might never come home to it.
As she flitted about, preparing tea for her unexpected guest, despite Miss Culpepper’s protests that she “hadn’t come to be waited on,” caressing Dear Brutus and laughing at his antics, listening to the old lady’s vivacious account of her journey, of the new tenants, and of the arrangements made for Cleopatra, whom Miss Culpepper had left as a “paying guest” with her friend at St. Margaret’s, she felt more cheerful than she had done since the day when the black shadow fell on her and Roger, eclipsing their honeymoon, severing them perhaps for ever.
If Miss Culpepper had had her own way she would immediately have taken possession of the diminutive kitchen, and remained there, but that Grace would not hear of for a moment.