“You have lived too long in this house, aunt, I think,” Mildred answered gently. “Forgive me if I say that it is a dull house.”
“A dull house? Nonsense, Mildred! It is one of the best houses in Brighton.”
“Yes, yes, aunt, but it is dull, all the same. The sun does not shine into it; the colouring of the furniture is gray and cold—”
“I hate gaudy colours.”
“Yes, but there are beautiful colours that are not gaudy—beautiful things that warm and gladden one. The next room,” glancing back at the front drawing-room and its single lamp, “is full of ghosts. Those long white curtains, those faint gray walls, are enough to kill you.”
“I am not so fanciful as that.”
“Ah, but you are fanciful, perhaps without knowing it. The influence of this dull gray house may have crept into your veins and depressed you unawares. Will you go to the Italian Lakes with me next September, aunt? Or, better, will you go to the West of England with me next week—to the north coast of Cornwall, which will be lovely at this season? I am sure you want change. This monotonous life is killing you.”
“No, no, Mildred. There is nothing amiss with my life. It suits me well enough, and I am able to do good.”
“Your lieutenants could carry on all that while you were away.”
“No; I like to be here; I like to organise, to arrange. I can feel that my life is not useless, that my talent is placed at interest.”