CHAPTER XI HALCYON DAYS
It was the prettiest white cottage imaginable, approached from the road by a flight of irregular steps and a steep little garden, now gay with chrysanthemums.
“It’s like one of those toy ‘weather houses,’” said Roger as they mounted the steps. “Does a little lady come out on fine days and a little man on wet ones?”
“I don’t know anything about a little man, but you’ll see the little lady directly—at least, I hope so. She’s just like the cottage; you couldn’t imagine anyone else owning it! Oh! did I warn you that she’s a regular Mrs. Malaprop, bless her? She loves using long words, French for preference, and they’re invariably the wrong ones, but she does it with an ineffable air of gentility, and is dreadfully offended if anyone laughs, so be careful! Oh! and be sure you wipe your shoes as you go in, and she’ll love you for ever. S-sh!”
The green door, adorned with brilliantly polished brass handle, knocker, and letter box, was opened by a small, spare, trim little woman, who might have stepped out of the pages of “Punch” some forty years ago. She wore her white hair in a closely curled “fringe,” neatly held in place by a fine net, with an absurd little butterfly bow of black lace perched on the crown of her head, presumably as a sort of apology for a cap. The skirt of her long, skimpy gown of black merino was trimmed with a series of tiny frills of the same stuff, and had quillings of snowy net at the neck and wrists, and her black silk apron was artfully adjusted to accentuate the slimness of her tiny waist. Through a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez her mild blue eyes scanned her visitors inquiringly.
“How are you, Miss Culpepper?” said Grace, extending her hand. “I wonder if you remember me?”
“I ought to do, I’m sure,” said the little old lady graciously. “But at the moment—why, of course, it’s Miss Armitage! How often I have thought of you and your dear father. I trust Mr. Armitage is in good health.” She glanced at Roger, and Grace blushed and smiled.
“Quite, thanks. But I’m not ‘Miss Armitage’ now. May I introduce my husband, Mr. Roger Carling? You see, we are taking a—a little holiday, and made up our minds all in a hurry to come over and ask whether you could put us up for a week or two.”
“Dear me—married—how romantic!” Miss Culpepper chirruped. “Permit me to tender my congratulations, my dear, to you both. And pray step in.”