She hesitated, and in the silence the drawing-room door opened and Rosamund came in, holding an open letter in her hand, knitting her brows, and looking very grave and intense. She greeted the Canon with her usual warm cordiality, but still looked grave and preoccupied.
“I’ve been writing to Mrs. Browning, about the house,” she said earnestly. “It is damp, isn’t it?”
“Damp?” said the Canon. “I’ve never noticed it. But then do you think the house is unwholesome?”
“Not for us. What I feel is, that for a bronchial person it might be.”
She paused, looking at her letter.
“I’ve put just what I feel here, in a letter to Mrs. Browning. I know the house is considered damp; by the Precincts, I mean. Mrs. Murry told me so, and Mrs. Tiling-Smith thinks the same. Even the Bishop—why are you smiling, Canon Wilton?”
But she began to smile too.
“What does the Bishop say about the danger to health of Little Cloisters?”
Her lips twitched, but she replied with firm sweetness:
“The Bishop says that all, or nearly all, old houses are apt to be damp in winter.”