"Pleased to meet you," he said, and put out a white hand. "How long you
goin' to stay?"
"What a question," Gilbert laughed. "As long as she and her husband wish,
of course."
"Well, by cricketty ginger!" Henry Smith exclaimed. "Hope you'll give 'em
enough to eat!" And before anyone could say another word, he had turned and
scooted back into the house.
"Don't mind Uncle Henry," Gilbert said to Lucia. "He's got a heart of gold,
but he can be cranky and eccentric sometimes. Maybe he's got one of his
moods to-day. I never know. Tomorrow he'll be all right--perhaps. I hope
so, anyhow.... But come inside. You must be tired after your trip. Your
rooms are upstairs."
He led her into the prettiest low-beamed room she thought she had ever
seen. Indian pottery was all about, low settles, a fireplace that conjured
up a cozy picture of lonely winter evenings, and an entrancing staircase
without a balustrade that led to a dark blue door. On the walls were some
beautiful Navajo blankets, and a tiny alcove off to the right seemed to
lead to another part of the long low house. The windows were brightly
curtained, and all the furniture had a look of endurance and permanence--a
manly room, she thought.
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