"Oh, not in that!" Janet protested. "And besides, I'd spoil it—I'm sure my skirt is wet."
But he insisted, thrusting it under her. "You've come along just in time, I wanted a woman to test it—men are no judges of chairs. There's a vacuum behind the small of your back, isn't there? Augusta will have to put a cushion in it."
"Did you make it for Mrs. Maturin? She will be Pleased!" exclaimed Janet, as she sat down. "I don't think it's uncomfortable."
"I copied it from an old one in the Boston Art Museum. Augusta saw it there, and said she wouldn't be happy until she had one like it. But don't tell her."
"Not for anything!" Janet got to her feet again. "I really must be going."
"Going where?"
"I told Mrs. Maturin I'd read that new book to her. I couldn't go yesterday—I didn't want to go," she added, fearing he might think his work had kept her.
"Well, I'll walk over with you. She asked me to make a little design for a fountain, you know, and I'll have to get some measurements."
As they emerged from the shop and climbed the slope Janet tried to fight off the sadness that began to invade her. Soon she would have to be leaving all this! Her glance lingered wistfully on the old farmhouse with its great centre chimney from which the smoke was curling, with its diamond-paned casements Insall had put into the tiny frames.
"What queer windows!" she said. "But they seem to go with the house, beautifully."