"Is the first consignment of dressing-stone delivered?" she asked.
"Up at the station," he replied eagerly, as if the question pleased him. "We bring some down to-morrow; it ought to be on the ground at ten o'clock. I took a look at it to-day, and thought it was up to sample; but I should like you to see it."
"It's a pity the journey from London is so long," she said regretfully.
"The very point I want to raise," returned he, with unconcern which was not overdone. "I think I need my architect on the spot, and I'm prepared to pay to have her there. Ah!" as they turned a corner and a charming cottage faced them, "this is what I want to show you. How do you like it?"
She stopped short, with a certain glow of feature and glint of the eye, which was characteristic. As usual, when very pleased, she did not speak. He watched her eyes as they dwelt on the rustic English beauty of the place.
The white smother of cherry-blossom melted against the mellow red tiles. By the garden-gate a big Forsythia bush bore a burden of honey-coloured flowers. The garden was a tangle of periwinkle, woodruff, and forget-me-not, with the all-pervading sweetness of wallflower; and the glowing coral of the ribes nestled against the tumble-down porch.
"It will be a mass of lilac-bloom in a fortnight," said the girl, hardly knowing she spoke.
"I want you to come in," Brooke told her.
The door was ajar. It opened upon a kitchen, beautifully clean and tidy, evidently for ornament, not use. Within was a tiny parlour, with gate-leg table, grandfather's clock and oak dresser.
"This is what I would ask my architect to put up with now and then, to save her a good deal of going to and fro," said Brooke. "I have taken it for three months, to accommodate my visitors, as there is no room in the inn."