When he took it home he did not know
where to put it. It was out of place among the dim old engravings
of bewigged portraits and conventional landscapes on the walls of
Golden Milestone. As he pondered the matter in his garden that
evening he had an inspiration. The sunset, flaming on the windows
of the west gable, kindled them into burning rose. Amid the
splendour he fancied Alice's fair face peeping archly down at him
from the room. The inspiration came then. It should be her room;
he would fit it up for her; and her picture should hang there.
He was all summer carrying out his plan. Nobody must know or
suspect, so he must go slowly and secretly. One by one the
furnishings were purchased and brought home under cover of
darkness. He arranged them with his own hands. He bought the
books he thought she would like best and wrote her name in them;
he got the little feminine knick-knacks of basket and thimble.
Finally he saw in a store a pale blue tea-gown and the satin
slippers. He had always fancied her as dressed in blue. He
bought them and took them home to her room. Thereafter it was
sacred to her; he always knocked on its door before he entered; he
kept it sweet with fresh flowers; he sat there in the purple
summer evenings and talked aloud to her or read his favourite
books to her.
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