Fyfe had finished it from basement to attic without a
word to her that he had any such undertaking in hand. Yet there was
scarcely a room in which she could not find the visible result of some
expressed wish or desire. Often during the winter they had talked over
the matter of furnishings, and she recalled how unconsciously she had
been led to make suggestions which he had stored up and acted upon. For
the rest she found her husband's taste beyond criticism. There were
drapes and rugs and prints and odds and ends that any woman might be
proud to have in her home.
"You're an amazing sort of a man, Jack," she said thoughtfully. "Is
there anything you're not up to? Even a Chinese servant in the kitchen.
It's perfect."
"I'm glad you like it," he said. "I hoped you would."
"Who wouldn't?" she cried impulsively. "I love pretty things. Wait till
I get done rearranging."
They introduced themselves to the immobile-featured Celestial when they
had jointly and severally inspected the house from top to bottom. Sam
Foo gazed at them, listened to their account of themselves, and
disappeared. He re-entered the room presently, bearing a package.
"Mist' Chol' Bentlee him leave foh yo'."
Stella looked at it. On the outer wrapping was written:
_From C.A. Benton to Mrs. John Henderson Fyfe_
_A Belated Wedding Gift_
She cut the string, and delved into the cardboard box, and gasped. Out
of a swathing of tissue paper her hands bared sundry small articles.
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