Desire said “Oh,” as she saw it—­long and white, with green shutters and deep verandas and wide, unhurried steps.  She had seen many beautiful homes but she had never seen “home” before.  The beauty and the peace of it caught the breath in her throat.  She was glad that Benis did not speak as he gave her his hand from the car.  She was glad for the volubility of Aunt Caroline and for the preoccupation of Dr. John with his engine.  She was glad that she and Benis stepped info the cool, dim hall alone.  In the dimness she could just see the little, nervous smile upon his lips and the warm and kindly look in his steady eyes.

After that first moment, the picture blurred a little with the bustle of arrival.  Aunt Caroline, large and light in her cream dust-coat, seemed everywhere.  The dimness fled before her and rooms and stairs and a white-capped maid emerged.  The rooms confused Desire, there were so many of them and all with such a strong family likeness of dark furniture and chintz.  Aunt Caroline called them by their names and, throwing open their doors, announced them in prideful tones.  Desire felt very diffident, they were such exclusive rooms, so old and settled and sure of themselves—­and she was so new.  They might, she felt, cold-shoulder her entirely.  It was touch and go.

All but one room!

“This,” said her conductor, throwing open a door, “is where Benis does his work.  He calls it his den.  But you will agree that library sounds better.”

Desire went in—­with the other rooms she had been content to stand in the doors—­and, as she entered, the room seemed to draw round and welcome her.  It was deeply and happily familiar—­that shallow, rounded window from which one could lean and touch the grass out-side, that dark, old desk with its leather and brass, that blue bowl on the corner of the mantel-piece, the lazy, yet expectant, chairs; even the beech tree whose light fingers tapped upon the window glass!  It was all part of her life, past or future—­somewhere.

“You see,” said Aunt Caroline in her character of showman, “we have fireplaces!”

Desire was so used to fireplaces that this did not seem extraordinary and yet, from Aunt Caroline’s tone, she knew that it must be, and tried to look impressed.

“They are dirty,” went on Aunt Caroline, “but they are worth it.  They give atmosphere.  If you have a house like this, you have to have fireplaces.  That is what I tell my maids when I engage them.  So that they cannot grumble afterwards.  Fireplaces are dirty, I tell them, but—­what are you staring at, my dear?”

“Was I staring?  I didn’t know.  It is just that I seem to know it all.”

Aunt Caroline looked wise.  “Oh, yes.  I know what you mean.  Benis explains that curious feeling—­some-thing about your right sphere or something being larger than your left, or quicker, I forget which.  Not that I can see any sense in it, anyway.  Do you mind if I leave you here?  I want to see if Olive has made the changes I ordered upstairs.”