“I have never said such a thing, or thought such a thing,” he replied, turning upon her sharply. “Money by itself everything? Faugh! Nonsense! All I say is, what every person with any common-sense must say, that without money very few other things are worth having from a worldly point of view. It is certainly the oil without which no machine can be worked, let it be the most perfect of its kind,” and having emitted these sentiments, he looked round for his family’s approval, having talked himself almost into a good humour.
“There is a great deal in what you say,” murmured his wife, while Frances remarked that she scarcely saw how it could be otherwise from a worldly standpoint, and she did not add the second part of her reflection, namely, Was the worldly standpoint the truest or best from which to look out on the problems of life? The younger girls had given but scant attention to their father’s dictum, or the comments it had drawn forth.
As the day went on, the look of the outside world grew gloomier again.
“I really agree with you, Betty,” said Eira, “that there’s not much use or satisfaction in our trying to do anything with this terrible old room. It is so ugly!” and she gazed round her in a sort of despair.
“No,” said Betty, “I don’t quite think so. It is more dull than offensively ugly. A few things would make a great difference—more than you realise. Pretty fresh muslin curtains to begin with—I think it’s the greatest mistake not to have them in winter as well as in summer—besides the thick ones, of course—and two or three big rich-coloured rugs, and a few nice squashy sofa cushions, and—”
“My dearest child, start by providing yourself with Aladdin’s lamp in the first place,” said Eira; but Betty had worked herself up into a small fit of enthusiasm, as was her “way,” and would not be snubbed.
“Yes,” she went on, “I could do wonders with the room without any very important changes; you see, its present monotony would do well enough as a background, and—oh, Francie, do come in, and listen to my ideas about this room.”
Frances, who had been employing herself since luncheon, if not really usefully, at least with the honest intention of being so, by writing various letters to her father’s dictation—for a new source of personal uneasiness had lately suggested itself to Mr Morion in the shape of fears that his eyesight was failing—Frances came forward into the room and looked about her.
“Those trails and bunches of leaves are lovely,” she said heartily, “they make all the difference in the world, and it will all look still prettier when the fire has burnt up a little,” for one of the changeless rules at Fir Cottage was that the drawing-room fire should only be lighted at four o’clock.
She moved towards it as she spoke, and gave it an audacious touch with the poker.