and discover Margaret in the warm-lit, spacious hall with a
partially opened packing-case, fatigued but happy, or go up to have
tea with her out of the right tea things, "come at last," or be told
to notice what was fresh there. It wasn't simply that I had never
had a house before, but I had really never been, except in the most
transitory way, in any house that was nearly so delightful as mine
promised to be. Everything was fresh and bright, and softly and
harmoniously toned. Downstairs we had a green dining-room with
gleaming silver, dark oak, and English colour-prints; above was a
large drawing-room that could be made still larger by throwing open
folding doors, and it was all carefully done in greys and blues, for
the most part with real Sheraton supplemented by Sheraton so
skilfully imitated by an expert Margaret had discovered as to be
indistinguishable except to a minute scrutiny. And for me, above
this and next to my bedroom, there was a roomy study, with specially
thick stair-carpet outside and thick carpets in the bedroom overhead
and a big old desk for me to sit at and work between fire and
window, and another desk specially made for me by that expert if I
chose to stand and write, and open bookshelves and bookcases and
every sort of convenient fitting. There were electric heaters
beside the open fire, and everything was put for me to make tea at
any time--electric kettle, infuser, biscuits and fresh butter, so
that I could get up and work at any hour of the day or night. I
could do no work in this apartment for a long time, I was so
interested in the perfection of its arrangements. And when I
brought in my books and papers from Vincent Square, Margaret seized
upon all the really shabby volumes and had them re-bound in a fine
official-looking leather.

I can remember sitting down at that desk and looking round me and