Was this, then, her home?--this section of a barrack-row of dwellings,
all alike in steps, pillars, doors and windows? When she got inside
the servant who had opened the door bobbed a curtsey to her: should
she shake hands with her and say, "And are you ferry well?" But at
this moment Lavender came running up the steps, playfully hurried
her into the house and up the stairs, and led her into her own
drawing-room. "Well, darling, what do you think of your home, now that
you see it?"

Sheila looked round timidly. It was not a big room, but it was a
palace in height and grandeur and color compared with that little
museum in Borva in which Sheila's piano stood. It was all so strange
and beautiful--the split pomegranates and quaint leaves on the
upper part of the walls, and underneath a dull slate color where the
pictures hung; the curious painting on the frames of the mirrors; the
brilliant curtains, with their stiff and formal patterns. It was not
very much like a home as yet; it was more like a picture that had been
carefully planned and executed; but she knew how he had thought of
pleasing her in choosing these things, and without saying a word she
took his hand and kissed it. And then she went to one of the three
tall French windows and looked out on the square. There, between the
trees, was a space of beautiful soft green, and some children dressed
in bright dresses, and attended by a governess in sober black, had
just begun to play croquet. An elderly lady with a small white dog was
walking along one of the graveled paths. An old man was pruning some
bushes.

"It is very still and quiet here," said Sheila. "I was afraid we
should have to live in that terrible noise always."