“Don’t talk to poor Bloomsbury people of such heavenly things as thatched cottages,” she said. “We have this horrible abode on a long lease, and I don’t see any chance of leaving it.”
“Oh, never mind the lease—we’ll sub-let it for you,” said Mr. Linton. He told her briefly of John O’Neill’s bequest to Norah.
“I want you to put it out of your head that you’re accepting the slightest favour,” he went on. “We feel that we only hold the place in trust; the cottage is there, empty, and indeed it is you who will be doing us the favour by coming to live in it.”
“Oh—I couldn’t,” she said breathlessly.
“Just think of it, Mrs. Hunt!” Norah knelt down by the hard little horsehair sofa. “There’s a big lawn in front, and a summer-house where the babies could play, and a big empty attic for them on wet days, and heaps of fresh milk, and you could keep chickens; and the sitting-room catches all the sun, and when Major Hunt comes out of the hospital it would be so quiet and peaceful. He could lie out under the trees on fine days on a rush lounge; and there are jolly woods for him to walk in.” The poor wife caught her breath. “And he’d be such tremendous company for Dad, and I know you’d help me when I got into difficulties with my cook-lady. There’s a little stream, and a tiny lake, and——”
“When is we goin’, Muvver?”
The question was Alison’s, put with calm certainty. She and Geoffrey had stolen near, and were listening with eager faces.
“Oh, my darling, I’m afraid we can’t,” said Mrs. Hunt tremulously.
“But the big girl says we can. When is we going?”
“Oh, Mother!” said Geoffrey, very low. “Away from—here!” He caught her hand. “Oh, say we’re going, Mother—darling!”