He had taken a great deal of pride in the planning and construction of the house. There was a young Englishman in one of the shops—a draftsman—who had studied architecture in a London office, and who might have been a successful architect but for a downfall which had converted him, overnight, into a remittance-man and a fairly competent employee of the Mexican International. And this man and Harboro had put their heads together and considered the local needs and difficulties, and had finally planned a house which would withstand northers and lesser sand-storms, and the long afternoons’ blazing sun, to the best advantage. A little garden had been planned, too. There was hydrant water in the yard. And there was a balcony, looking to the west, over the garden.
She preceded him up-stairs.
“First I want to show you your own room,” said Harboro. “What do you call it? I mean the room in which the lady of the house sits and is contented.”
I can’t imagine what there was in this description which gave Sylvia a hint as to his meaning, but she said:
“A boudoir?”
And Harboro answered promptly: “That’s it!”
The boudoir was at the front of the house, up-stairs, overlooking the Quemado Road. It made Sylvia’s eyes glisten. It contained a piano, and a rather tiny divan in russet leather, and maple-wood furniture, and electric fixtures which made you think of little mediæval lanterns. But the bride looked at these things somewhat as if she were inspecting a picture, painted in bold strokes: as if they would become obscure if she went too close—as if they couldn’t possibly be hers to be at home among.
It did not appear that Harboro was beginning to feel the absence of a spontaneous acceptance on the part of his wife. Perhaps he was rather full of his own pleasure just then.
They closed the door of the boudoir behind them after they had completed their inspection, and at another door Harboro paused impressively.
“This,” he said, pushing the door open wide, “is the guest-chamber.”