He led us into one bedroom after another. A man’s room first, with a little iron bedstead, big chairs, a heavy writing-table and book-cases, and plenty of space. Next, a dainty room, all furnished in pink, where roses sprawled in clusters on the deep cream ground of an exquisite French wall-paper. From it opened a bare, panelled room, the sole furniture of which was a grand piano and three chairs.
“Why, that’s the twin to your Bechstein, Madge!” I said.
Madge astonished me by suddenly turning scarlet.
“Is it?” she said awkwardly.
“Don’t stay to argue over pianos,” Dr. Firth said. “There’s another room to see.”
It was a very lovely room. A little carved bed stood in an alcove under a broad casement-window; all the colouring was delicate blue and grey, and it was full of air and sunlight. The furniture was of beautiful grey silky-oak: the chintzes were faintly splashed with pink here and there, and there was pink in the cushions on the great Chesterfield couch. Never, I think, was there so dainty a room.
“One has to ask a lady’s permission before one sits down in her room,” said Dr. Firth, with a twinkle. “May we sit down in your apartment, Doris?”
“Mine?” I stammered. And then I saw Colin’s face, and I knew there was something I had not been told.
Colin came with one stride, and put me on the big couch.
“Listen, Dor, old girl,” he said. “Dr. Firth has been making great plans: he’s such a strenuous planner that it isn’t the least bit of use to argue with him, I find. They are very wonderful plans for us.” And then the big fellow fairly choked. “I think you’d better go on, sir,” he managed to say.