“Well?” queried Corin.
“I wonder whether Mrs. Trimwell has another room. Elizabeth suggests that I should take rooms for her. She wants an early reply.”
“Then my suggestion,” remarked Corin calmly, “is that you ask Mrs. Trimwell. On the whole it would be simpler and more practical than merely wondering.”
“Brilliant man!” responded John genially. And he rang the bell.
Mrs. Trimwell, it appeared, had not. She was profuse in her apologies for the lack of accommodation. You would have imagined that she was entirely to blame for the fact that the White Cottage possessed merely three bedrooms and a cupboard, so to speak. Tilda and Benny—aged four—slept in the cupboard.
“But there’s the Green Man what isn’t seven minutes’ walk from here, and though I’ll not vouch for the cooking myself, a bit of bacon and a cup of coffee for breakfast is what any idiot might rise to, it being pleasanter for the lady not to be afoot too early, and the beds I believe is clean, while for other meals she’ll natural take them along of you.”
Of course Chance—so-called—had a hand in the arrangement. If Elizabeth had both slept and breakfasted at the White Cottage, I’ll vouch for it that matters would not have happened precisely as they did; indeed, they would probably have been totally different.
John finished his breakfast, and then took a telegram to the post-office.
He was genuinely, undeniably pleased that Elizabeth was coming. He had a sensation of something like exultation in the thought. She was so extraordinarily reliable. Never under any circumstances did Elizabeth “let you down,” to use a slang phrase. There was never the smallest occasion to remind Elizabeth that the intimate remarks you made to her were confidences. It was a foregone conclusion in her eyes. She would no more dream of repeating them than she would dream of tampering with another person’s letters. Also, so reflected John, she never reminded you that you had made them, unless it was entirely obvious that you desired to be so reminded. She never glossed over any difficulty, but faced it squarely with you. The only people who were ever disappointed in Elizabeth were those who looked for a maudlin sympathy from her, who desired her to fight their battles, when she was fully aware that they alone could fight them. Yet Elizabeth was entirely feminine, from the top of her glossy brown hair, to the tip of her dainty shoes. John, perhaps more than any one else in the world, understood and appreciated both her strength and her femininity. It was therefore with a feeling of intense satisfaction that he dispatched his telegram.
“Things move when Elizabeth’s around,” reflected John.