But he cut her short. "It depends on _you_ whether Doryford becomes my
home or not."
"On me?" she repeated, troubled. "Don't trust to my taste as much as
that, Godfrey."
"But you do like it?" he asked insistently.
"Of course I like it. If it comes to that, I don't know that I've ever
been in so beautiful and perfect a house. And then, well perhaps because
we've everything so shabby at Old Place, I do like to see everything in
such apple-pie order!"
A little disappointed, he went on, "I fear it isn't your ideal house,
Betty? Not your house of dreams?"
And then, all at once, she knew that she couldn't answer him, for tears
had welled up in her eyes, and choked her speech.
Her house of dreams? Betty Tosswill's house of dreams had vanished, she
thought, for ever, so very long ago. Betty's house of dreams had been
quite a small house--but such a cosy, happy place, full of the Godfrey
of long ago, and of good, delicious dream children....
She turned her head away.
"Well," he exclaimed, "that's that! We won't think about this house
again. We'll go and look at another place to-morrow."
His matter-of-fact, rather cross, tone made her pull herself together.
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