“Well, I’m going to fix up the studio. There now—will you be satisfied?”
“Thank you,” she said, with a bright nod.
“Oh, you needn’t thank me,” he said grimly. “Wait and see. You may regret it.”
They set to work with a vim, and once launched on a new idea, he threw himself into it with the enthusiasm of a child. Sassafras was pressed into service (having surreptitiously jammed the elevator), rolling his eyes at the magnificence he uncovered. They spent a gay morning transforming the boarded bareness of the studio with the warm, green background of great tapestries, restful in harmony and dreamy verdure. The man had a love of beauty as intense as all his desires, and if she did not always understand the value of the really fine bits of Louis XV furniture, spreading fauteuils and the great flat-top desk with bulging curves which reminded one of a pompous burgomaster, or the shadowy massiveness of the carved-oak sideboard, she had an instinctive eye for proportion and delicacy.
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to stop for lunch,” he said at last.
“Send Sam for sandwiches, and let’s go on,” she said eagerly.
“Do you want to?”
“Indeed I do!”
They lunched on a great Florentine table of carved oak, ample enough to seat a dozen, discussing where the sideboard should stand and the old Roman chest with beaten brass clasps. Underneath them, a great rug in the center transformed the floor with the heavy faded yellows and greens of its rich softness.
“We’ll draw a curtain of China silk, a warm gray, over the skylight,” he said, studying the harmonies that had come into the room. “Hello! What are you doing?” he added, smiling.