"But my husband spends his life in
digging up manuscripts which nobody wants." She was amused by Ridley's
expression of startled disapproval.
"There's a clever man in London called John who paints ever so much
better than the old masters," Mrs. Flushing continued. "His pictures
excite me--nothin' that's old excites me."
"But even his pictures will become old," Mrs. Thornbury intervened.
"Then I'll have 'em burnt, or I'll put it in my will," said Mrs.
Flushing.
"And Mrs. Flushing lived in one of the most beautiful old houses in
England--Chillingley," Mrs. Thornbury explained to the rest of them.
"If I'd my way I'd burn that to-morrow," Mrs. Flushing laughed. She had
a laugh like the cry of a jay, at once startling and joyless.
"What does any sane person want with those great big houses?" she
demanded. "If you go downstairs after dark you're covered with black
beetles, and the electric lights always goin' out. What would you do
if spiders came out of the tap when you turned on the hot water?" she
demanded, fixing her eye on Helen.
Mrs. Ambrose shrugged her shoulders with a smile.
"This is what I like," said Mrs. Flushing. She jerked her head at the
Villa. "A little house in a garden. I had one once in Ireland. One could
lie in bed in the mornin' and pick roses outside the window with one's
toes."
"And the gardeners, weren't they surprised?" Mrs.
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