"By no means. But—well, sir, I will be open with you. Mr. Faversham in my opinion wants a change of scene. He has been in that room for three weeks, and—he understands there is no other to which he can be moved. It would be a great advantage, too, to be able to carry him into a garden. In fact"—the little doctor spoke with the same cool frankness he had used in his first interview with Melrose—"your house, Mr. Melrose, is a museum; but it is not exactly the best place for an invalid who is beginning to get about again."
Melrose frowned upon him.
"What does he want, eh? More space? Another room? How many rooms do you suppose there are in this house, eh?" he asked in a voice half hectoring, half scornful.
"Scores, I daresay," said Undershaw, quietly. "But when I inquired of Dixon the other day whether it would be impossible to move Mr. Faversham into another room he told me that every hole and corner in the house was occupied by your collections, except two on the ground floor that you had never furnished. We can't put Mr. Faversham into an unfurnished room. That which he occupies at present is, if I may speak plainly, rather barer of comforts than I like."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Well, when an invalid's out of bed a pleasant and comfortable room is a help to him—a few things to look at on the walls—a change of chairs—a bookcase or two—and so on. Mr. Faversham's present room is—I mean no offence—as bare as a hospital ward, and not so cheerful. Then as to the garden"—Undershaw moved to a side window and pointed to the overgrown and gloomy wilderness outside—"nurse and I have tried in vain to find a spot to which we could carry him. I am afraid I must say that an ordinary lodging-house, with a bit of sunny lawn on which he could lie in his long chair, would suit him better, at his present stage, than this fine old house."
"Luxury!" growled Melrose, "useless luxury and expense! that's what every one's after nowadays. A man must be as cossu as a pea in a pod! I'll go and speak to him myself!"
And catching up round him the sort of Tennysonian cloak he habitually wore, even in the house and on a summer day, Melrose moved imperiously toward the door.
Undershaw stood in his way.
"Mr. Faversham is really not fit yet to discuss his own plans, except with his doctor, Mr. Melrose. It would be both wise and kind of you to leave the decision of the matter to myself."