“Very likely—but, just now, don't you think we've had enough financial talk?” said Uncle Sylvester, with a bored contraction of his eyebrows. “Come,” looking around the room, “you've changed the interior of the old house.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, just after father's death it was put in the hands of a local architect or builder, one of father's old friends, but not a very skillful workman, who made changes while the family were away. That's why your present bedroom, which was father's old study, had a slice taken off it to make the corridor larger, and why the big chimney and hearthstone are still there, although the fireplace is modernized. That was Flint's stupidity.”
“Whose stupidity?” asked Uncle Sylvester, trimming his nails.
“Flint's—the old architect.”
“Why didn't you make him change it back again?”
“He left Lakeville shortly after, and I brought an architect from St. Louis after I returned from Europe. But nothing could be done to your room without taking down the chimney, so it remained as Flint left it.”
“That reminds me, Gabriel, I'm afraid I spoke rather cavalierly to Kitty, last night, about the arrangements of the room. The fact is, I've taken a fancy to it, and should like to fit it up myself. Have I your permission?”
“Certainly, my dear Sylvester.”
“I've some knickknacks in my trunks, and I'll do it at once.”
“As you like.”