"Oh, so attached! I love it more each day. It is so cosy, and we are so comfortable. Now that Amelia has permitted us to have daily help there is nothing we want, is there?"
A cloud passed over his face.
"I am sorry that you still do not wish to leave, Marg. I know it would be so much better for you, and Renton insists upon it. He says in bracing air you will be so much stronger, and—I am disappointed that you are not interested."
"He does not know——" the words broke from me. And then, "I am interested. I want to do what you want. Your picture is entrancing. Let us begin at once. I will draw a plan of the garden, and you shall draw a plan of the house, and then we'll compare notes."
I spoke rapidly. Why should we not begin, as he was so eager? It would give him occupation during the long days. It would make him happy, feeling that it was being done for me and my comfort.
He brightened at once.
"Where shall we have it?" I went on. "Shall it be on the top of Leith Hill, or at Hind Head, Farndon, Frensham, or Dorking?"
"It must be where there are pine trees and heather for you, and in the neighbourhood of shooting for me. It must be high up, and yet not too cold, and we must pitch the house southwest for the sun."
"And there must be a river," I continued gravely, "and blue distances, a wide, extensive view, grand forest trees in our own garden, and lawns that have been rolled and 'mowd' for a thousand years. And God will specially create it all for us."
"Now you are being impertinent." He smiled happily. "I will fetch paper and pencils." But he didn't, for Peter arrived at the moment and forced an entrance. His nose was a trifle blue, and his eyes glistened as a warrior's who has recently tasted blood. He pecked me on the forehead and asked me how I was. I informed him that I was only very middling, and Dimbie added that rest and quiet were most essential for my well-being.