XLV.
RANDOLPH ROGERS' BRONZE DOORS.
WELL," says I to Cousin D., "what room do you call this?"
"Oh, this is the old House," says he.
The old house! Sisters, there are times when I think Dempster is beside himself. I did not deign to answer him, except with a look that would have stopped the sap running from a young maple in the brightest April day you ever saw. He didn't seem to mind it, though, but went on as if I hadn't pierced him with my eyes.
"These doors," says he, swinging back the half of a door that seemed to be made of brass and gold and powdered green-stone pounded together, and cut into the most lovely pictures that you ever set eyes on—"these doors open to the new House. They are by Rogers, and cost thirty thousand dollars."
"Thirty thousand dollars for these two doors, Cousin Dempster! I have just been a-wondering if you were crazy, and now I know you are."
"Upon my word," says he, "that is just what they cost."
"What! thirty thousand dollars?"