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The
dining-room looked a picture of comfort. The oval table, the low lamps,
the clusters of candles under coloured shades, the great Oriental bowl
of wild flowers--eglantine, honeysuckle, foxglove, all the sweet hedge
flowers of midsummer, made a central mass of colour and brightness
against the subdued and even sombre tones of walls and curtains. The
room was old, the furniture old. Nothing had been altered since the time
of Sir George's great grandfather; and the whirligig of time had just
now made the old things precious. Yes, those chairs and tables and
sideboards and bookcases and wine-coolers against which Georgie's soul
had revolted in the early years of her wedded life were now things of
beauty, and Georgie's friends envied her the possession of indisputable
Chippendale furniture.
Mr. Mostyn, a distinguished owner of race-horses, with his pretty wife,
made up the party. The gentleman was full of his entries for Liverpool
and Chester, and discoursed mysteriously with Sir George and the horsey
bachelors all supper time.


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