"Yes, this is the living-room."
Stella gazed at the high, dignified walls silently a moment. "I can just see her in it, entertaining her young friends; walking around on that terrace with Richard Grosvenor—he's somebody your sons know, a young man that is just crazy about Lollle—walking along in her slow grand way under those big aristocratic-looking trees down there; yes, it will suit her fine. That's why I wanted to come out—to see what it was like. I walked by your city house last night. It was closed, but I could get an idea. I suppose you think that's funny, but I've picked out Laurel's clothes so much—" she stopped. "I couldn't see some of the other rooms, could I? I'll never be here again, and, well—you know, it's sort of nice to be able to think of a person in a house or a room you've seen yourself, when they write. I thought Laurel and I might write."
"Of course you'll write. Oh, it will only be as if she were away at school or college, having all the things you want her to have. Come out into the dining-room. Come out into the garden. Laurel loves the garden. And then come upstairs. The violet guest-room is Laurel's now. Come and see her pretty valanced bed."
