“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lady Coote. “It’s a very large place, and gloomy, you know. Rows of picture galleries with such forbidding-looking people. What they call Old Masters are very depressing, I think. You should have seen a little house we had in Yorkshire, Mr. Thesiger. When Sir Oswald was plain Mr. Coote. Such a nice lounge hall and a cheerful drawing-room with an inglenook⁠—a white striped paper with a frieze of wistaria I chose for it, I remember. Satin stripe, you know, not moire. Much better taste, I always think. The dining-room faced northeast, so we didn’t get much sun in it, but with a good bright scarlet paper and a set of those comic hunting prints⁠—why, it was as cheerful as Christmas.”

In the excitement of these reminiscences, Lady Coote dropped several little balls of wool, which Jimmy dutifully retrieved.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Lady Coote. “Now, what was I saying? Oh⁠—about houses⁠—yes, I do like a cheerful house. And choosing things for it gives you an interest.”