Indeed she is a half-opened bud of a matron, conservative, full of proprieties, and of gentle indulgence. She now smiled at me with a warm delight in the romance upon which she had just shed her grace, but her demureness allowed nothing to be said. She glanced round the room, and out of the window, and observed:
“I always love Woodside, it is restful—there is something about it—oh—assuring—really—it comforts one—I’ve been reading Maxim Gorky.”
“You shouldn’t,” said I.
“Dadda reads them—but I don’t like them—I shall read no more. I like Woodside—it makes you feel—really at home—it soothes one like the old wood does. It seems right—life is proper here—not ulcery——”
“Just healthy living flesh,” said I.
“No, I don’t mean that, because one feels—oh, as if the world were old and good, not old and bad.”
“Young, and undisciplined, and mad,” said I.
“No—but here, you, and Lettie, and Leslie, and me—it is so nice for us, and it seems so natural and good. Woodside is so old, and so sweet and serene—it does reassure one.”
“Yes,” said I, “we just live, nothing abnormal, nothing cruel and extravagant—just natural—like doves in a dovecote.”
“Oh!—doves!—they are so—so mushy.”
“They are dear little birds, doves. You look like one yourself, with the black band round your neck. You a turtle-dove, and Lettie a wood-pigeon.”
“Lettie is splendid, isn’t she? What a swing she
