“The house is ours, father,” she assured him, jubilantly. “And I am having it painted on the outside.”
“You are having it painted on the outside, Margaret? Was that necessary, already?”
“Yes, father.... But I am Lydia. Don’t you remember? I am your little girl, grown up.”
“Yes, yes, of course. You are like your mother— And you are having the house painted? Who’s doing the job?”
She told him the man’s name and he laughed rather immoderately.
“He’ll do you on the white lead, if you don’t watch him,” he said. “I know Asa Todd. Talk about frauds— You must be sure he puts honest linseed oil in the paint. He won’t, unless you watch him.”
“I’ll see to it, father.”
“But whatever you do, don’t let ’em into my room,” he went on, after a frowning pause.
“You mean your library, father? I’m having the ceiling whitened. It—it needed it.”
“I mean my bedroom, child. I won’t have workmen pottering about in there.”