Evidently they had never greatly troubled Miss Goodwin, or she was not disposed to let them trouble her now, for ten minutes later we went down the road together, and found the painters already unloading their wagon. The reliable Hard Cider, true to his word, had procured them for me, which, as I afterward have discovered, was something of a feat in Bentford, where promises are more common than fulfilment.
“It seems a pity to paint the outside of the house,” said Miss Goodwin; “it’s such a lovely weathered gray now. What colour is it going to be?”
“No colour,” said I. “White, with green blinds, of course. But the inside will be done first.”
We entered, with the boss painter, and went into the south room, which had already become the natural centre of the house.
“Now,” said I, “I’m not going to paper any rooms if I can help it. I want the walls calcimined. They look pretty sound to me, barring some places where you’ll have to patch the plaster. Can it be done?”
The painter walked about the room carefully, then examined the hall, the north room, and the dining-room, while the girl and I followed him.
“Sure,” he said.
“All right; then I want this room done first, as I’m anxious to get my books unpacked and my desk set up. Now, what colour shall it be?” I turned toward Miss Goodwin as I spoke.
She shook her head. “I’m not going to say a word,” she answered. “This is your room.”
“I suppose you want the woodwork white?” the painter suggested. “Those old mantels, for instance.”