"Isn't it nice?—and I planned it myself!" She was like a child with a new toy, her still young face eager and bright under her soft gray hair.
"I think it perfect," said McTaggart, warmly. He glanced around him as he spoke at the awning, striped with green, the basket chairs, gay red cushions, and the coarse rush matting beneath his feet.
For the leaded roof of the smoking-room, that was built out into the garden, had been transformed, with the help of green lattice work and great tubs filled with geraniums and daisies, into a sort of lounge, protected by the striped tent cloth.
"I'm growing golden hops in this box at the edge to twine up the supports and along the lattices, and in the Spring I'm going to have no end of bulbs and turn that horrid bank down there into a rockery."
She pointed to the patch of discolored grass below them, where a dingy wall completed her small domain. Above it one caught a glimpse of the trees, in the distant Park, and the evening sky, where stars already were beginning to steal out, one by one.
"Sit down—both of you"—she turned to her guests. "And talk while I make you some Turkish coffee. Here are some cigarettes—those are cigars..."
They settled themselves in the basket chairs, watching their hostess turn up the flame, under the bright copper pan, and measure out the coffee, which filled the air with its fragrance, delicate and refreshing.
"Have you seen Mrs. Fleming lately?" The Bishop addressed McTaggart. "I think the last time I met you was at the Cadells' house."
"Not for many months," the other replied—"I've been abroad, travelling about. What sort of man is Euan Fleming?"
Lady Leason looked up quickly.