It was not part of his dream that this speculative cottage that he had built for Eve should be so used.
Besides, every detail had been thought out to please eyes that sought and found the beauty in everything. The little dining-room was to be panelled oak, the window-seats were deep enough to make cushioned lounges where one could lie and read. All the timber used was oak, from the beams that were left showing in the ceiling to the panel-work of the cupboards and the treads and newel-posts of the stairs. The door-fittings were of hammered steel, the hearths laid with dark green tiles. A little electric light plant was to be fitted, with a tiny gas engine and dynamo in an outhouse behind the cottage.
Canterton spent the greater part of Christmas morning wandering from room to room, studying the views from the different windows, and examining the work the men had put in during the previous week. He also drew a trial plan of the garden, sitting on one of the window-seats, and using a pencil and the back of a letter. Both cottage and garden were parts of a piece of speculative devotion, and in them his strength found self-expression.
Meanwhile “the Bourgeois” of Clarendon Grove became very much more talkative just about Christmas time. Eve met him at the corner of the road on three successive mornings, and his person suggested holly berries, roast beef, and a pudding properly alight. He seemed festive and unable to help being confidential.
“Suppose you’ll be going away to friends?”
She told Mr. Parfit that she would be spending Christmas quite alone.
“I say, that’s not good for you! What, no kids, and no party?”
“No.”
“Christmas isn’t Christmas without kids. I always go to my sister Jane’s at Croydon. Good sort, Jane. Two boys and two girls. All healthy, too. Makes you feel young to see them eat. I always go down on Christmas Eve with a Tate’s sugar box full of presents. That’s the sort of Christmas that suits me A1!”
He looked at her benignantly.