Irene and Major Tillyard were standing in front of the bright wood fire burning behind the great old polished brass andirons, in what had been the dining room of the original house but was now a sort of family sitting room, with soft chintz-covered chairs and sofas instead of the formal period pieces of the drawing room across the hall—lovely but not particularly comfortable with its delicate Sheraton sofas and straight-backed fireside chairs. They were still talking about the farm, and they stopped abruptly as I came in.
Irene held out her hands to me.
“Oh, darling, it’s really so nice to have you here—like old times!” she said, smiling. All trace of annoyance and petulance was gone, like a cloud in April. “And I do hope this dreadful weather clears up, because in the morning we’re goin
