After sending for breakfast in bed, Gwenda got up and arranged her plans.
She spent a day seeing Plymouth which she enjoyed and on the following day she hired a comfortable Daimler car and chauffeur and set off on her journey through England.
The weather was good and she enjoyed her tour very much. She saw several possible residences in Devonshire but nothing that she felt was exactly right.
There was no hurry. She would go on looking. She learned to read between the lines of the house agents’ enthusiastic descriptions and saved herself a certain number of fruitless errands.
It was on a Tuesday evening about a week later that the car came gently down the curving hill road into Dillmouth and on the outskirts of that still charming seaside resort, passed a For Sale board where, through the trees, a glimpse of a small white Victorian villa could be seen.
Immediately Gwenda felt a throb of appreciation — almost of recognition. This was her house! Already she was sure of it.
She could picture the garden, the long windows — she was sure that the house was just what she wanted.
It was late in the day, so she put up at the Royal Clarence Hotel and went to the house agents whose name she had noted on the board the following morning.
Presently, armed with an order to view, she was standing in the old-fashioned long drawing-room with its two french windows giving on to a flagged terrace in front of which a kind of rockery interspersed with flowering shrubs fell sharply to a stretch of lawn below. Through the trees at the bottom of the garden the sea could be seen.
This is my house, thought Gwenda. It’s home. I feel already as though I know every bit of it.
The door opened and a tall melancholy woman with a cold in the head entered, sniffing. “Mrs. Hengrave? I have an order from Messrs. Galbraith and Penderley.
I’m afraid it’s rather early in the day — ” Mrs. Hengrave, blowing her nose, said sadly that that didn’t matter at all. The tour of the house began.
Yes, it was just right. Not too large. A bit old-fashioned, but she and Giles could put in another bathroom or two. The kitchen could be modernised. It already had an Aga, fortunately. With a new sink and up-to-date equipment — Through all Gwenda’s plans and preoccupations, the voice of Mrs. Hengrave droned thinly on recounting the details of the late Major Hengrave’s last illness. Half of Gwenda attended to making the requisite noises of condolence, sympathy and understanding. Mrs. Hengrave’s people all lived in Kent—anxious she should come and settle near them… the Major had been very fond of Dillmouth, secretary for many years of the Golf Club, but she herself.
“Yes…. Of course…. Dreadful for you…. Most natural…. Yes, nursing homes are like that…. Of course…. You must be…” And the other half of Gwenda raced along in thought: Linen cupboard here, I expect…. Yes. Double room—nice view of sea — Giles will like that. Quite a useful little room here — Giles might have it as a dressing-room…. Bathroom — I expect the bath has a mahogany surround— Qh yes, it has\ How lovely — and standing in the middle of the floor! I shan’t change that — it’s a period piece!
Such an enormous bath!
One could have apples on the surround.
And sail boats — and painted ducks. You could pretend you were in the sea…. I know: we’ll make that dark back spareroom into a couple of really up-to-date green and chromium bathrooms — the pipes ought to be all right over the kitchen — and keep this just as it is.
“Pleurisy,’ said Mrs. Hengrave. “Turning to double pneumonia on the third day –5) “Terrible,” said Gwenda. “Isn’t there another bedroom at the end of this passage ?” There was — and it was just the sort of room she had imagined it would be — almost round, with a big bow window.
She’d have to do it up, of course. It was in quite good condition, but why were people like Mrs. Hengrave so fond of that mustardcum-biscuit shade of wall paint?