Wasn’t it a funny dream?
The postman’s knock came, as it generally does, while we were sitting at breakfast. There were two letters for papa, only. I had forgotten about Captain Whyte’s answer being expected by post; my head was full of the Yew Trees and the climbing rose paper, and wondering if it was going to be a fine enough day for papa to say I might drive out. It was only when he looked up with a pleased exclamation that I remembered what a disappointment that letter might have brought.
“It is all right,” said papa. “Captain Whyte agrees to my terms. Indeed, I almost wish,” he went on less brightly, “that I had not named so high a rent. I’m afraid they are very—well, not at all rich, to put it mildly. He says they cannot afford to do anything to the house, and as it is quite healthy, they will be satisfied if it is just clean and tidy. Strictly speaking, you see, I am not bound to do much to it; I did it up so thoroughly for Mrs Nesbitt, and it is in perfectly good order, substantially speaking, only—”
“The papers are so ugly,” said mamma. “You know Mrs Nesbitt chose them all, and her taste was dreadful, and there are several little things that would make it much nicer for a family of younger people. These two poky little rooms at the back would make a nice schoolroom if thrown into one.”
“Just what Captain Whyte said himself,” papa agreed. “Well, we must go over it, and I will see what I can afford.”
“If they are paying a good rent,” said mamma, “that might make up a little.”
Dear mamma! she looked quite delighted with herself for being so business-like.
“Any way,” I said, “you really must let me choose a paper for the girls’ room. I’d rather pay for it myself, or count it as one of my birthday presents, papa, than not have it.”
Papa laughed at us both.