“Oh, no,” I couldn’t help replying. “We only use this when visitors are here. On ordinary occasions we get in and out of the bedroom windows, and hop down the honeysuckle.”
She drew herself up reprimandingly; she evidently wished me to understand that, though she was willing to treat me as an equal so long as I behaved myself, she couldn’t allow any undue familiarity on my part.
“I don’t suppose _you_ would see anything unusual in such an approach to the upper storeys, having been used to it all your life,” she said distantly; “but accustomed as _we_ are to our magnificent staircase at home—wide enough to drive up a carriage and pair, isn’t it, dear?”—
“Er—nearly——” (Dear was the more truthful of the two, I fancy.)
“—And our beautiful pile carpet, in rich reds and blues, and the thickest of stair-pads underneath, till you would think you were walking on real Turkey carpet, this naturally strikes us as—how shall I put it so as not to hurt your feelings?—as—as very humorous, you know!”
“I quite understand,” I said, as we entered my bedroom.
She walked straight over to the window and looked out.
“Not a house to be seen anywhere,” she exclaimed dismally, “whichever way you look; nothing in sight but those everlasting tree-covered hills.”
As she seemed inclined for a lengthy soliloquy, I poured out some water and indicated the soap-dish, as politely as I knew how, to Dear, who had taken off her hat and coat, and seemed almost grateful for my attentions. I noticed that Abigail had been up and had adorned the towel-horse with my finest damask towels with embroidered ends, and had got out a rare and treasured bedspread made entirely of lace, that had just been sent me as a present from Venice, and had put it over the bed in place of the old-world patchwork quilt that I infinitely prefer in the cottage; it was so much more in keeping with the surroundings.
The ample one turned with a sigh from the depressing outlook that was so deficient in motor-buses and halfpenny car rides and taxis and houses, and said, evidently striving to make the best of a bad job, “At any rate you’ve tried to make it look as nice as you can inside. Do you know, I rather like that bedspread”—as though conveying a real favour on the article in question. “It reminds me of an _exquisite_ bedspread we have at home something like it, only ours is linen, with shamrocks on it in solid embroidery.” And she flung down her coat and other _impedimenta_ on the top of the lace in a way that made me tremble for its safety. “It’s _something_ like ours—don’t you think so, dear?”