"You like it? It's not inharmonious. I left it as it is—in case you care to rebuild or redecorate."

"It's a sweet home—" she was touched by his indifference. "So artistic."

Petticoat winced, but he was a polite chap, and he only said, carelessly,
"Yes, home is where the art is," and let it go at that.

In the hall and the great library she was conscious of vastness and magnificent distances, but, she thought, if necessary, I can use roller skates.

As she followed Petticoat and the current shift of servants upstairs, she quavered to herself like the fat little gods of the hearth.

She took her husband into her arms, and felt that at last she had realized her one time dreams of the moving pictures, ay, even to the final close-up.

What mattered, so long as she could paw at the satin back of his shirt,. . . Read More