"Do you?" asked Rosalie, with her small, painful smile.
Betty laughed.
"It is too picturesque, in its special way, to be quite credible," she
said.
"I thought that when I first saw it," said Rosy.
"Don't you think so, now?"
"Well," was the rather uncertain reply, "as Nigel says, there's not much
good in a place that is falling to pieces."
"Why let it fall to pieces?" Betty put it to her with impartial
promptness.
"We haven't money enough to hold it together," resignedly.
As they climbed the low, broad, lichen-blotched steps, whose broken
stone balustrades were almost hidden in clutching, untrimmed ivy, Betty
felt them to be almost incredible, too. The uneven stones of the terrace
the steps mounted to were lichen-blotched and broken also. Tufts of
green growths had forced themselves between the flags, and added an
untidy beauty. The ivy tossed in branches over the red roof and walls of
the house. It had been left unclipped, until it was rather an endlessly
clambering tree than a creeper. The hall they entered had the beauty
of spacious form and good, old oaken panelling. There were deep window
seats and an ancient high-backed settle or so, and a massive table by
the fireless hearth.
Pages:
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212