places that some self-made Western men have built and furnished with the aid of unlimited fortunes, and the unlimited shrewd good sense which has taught most of those of them whose lives have been spent in work and bold ventures, that it is more practical to buy taste and experience, than to spend money without it. John Holt had also had the aid and taste of a wonderful little woman, whose life had been easier and whose world had been broader than his own. Together they had built a beautiful and lovable home to live in. It contained things from many countries and its charm and luxury might well have been the result of a far older civilisation.
“Don’t you think, Robin,” said Meg in a low voice, the first evening, as they sat in a deep-cushioned window-seat in the library together—“don’t you think you know what she was like?”
They had spoken together of her often, and somehow it was always in a rather low voice, and they always called her “she.”
Robin looked up from the book he held on his knee. It was a beautiful volume she had been fond of.
“I know why you say that,” he said. ‘You mean that somehow the house is like her. Yes, I’m sure it is, just as Aunt Matilda’s house is like her. People’s houses are always like them.”
