With a long breath of relief, Patricia sat down on the edge of the bed,
looking about the big pleasant room with approving eyes. It was exactly
the sort of room she should like to have when she got be a grandmother.
There were fresh muslin curtains at the windows, the fine old-fashioned
mahogany furniture shone from its recent polishing; on the broad hearth
a light fire was laid ready for the lighting, and at one corner of the
fireplace stood a big chintz-covered armchair. Of course there was a
footstool beside it. Patricia had seen to the footstool herself, hunting
it out up garret that morning. She had wondered why Daddy's eyes
twinkled at sight of it--Daddy would tell her nothing about grandmother,
she must wait and see. And Patricia so hated waiting for anything, from
surprises to scoldings.
"Yes, it certainly does look grandmothery, Custard," she said; "and
the flowers help a lot. I know she'll love asters; they're such an
old-ladyish flower. Mind, sir, you're not to go rushing at her! And the
very first time you run off with any of her things you're going to get
your ears boxed."
Custard wagged tentatively; boxing his ears appeared to him to belong to
Miss Kirby's special department.
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