“How beautiful it all is!” she said as they went down the terrace steps and along the lake path which led through a pergola and around a curved corner called “The Alcove.”
This delightful nook was a small open court of marble, adorned with pillars and statues, and partly surrounding a fountain.
“Yes, isn’t it?” exclaimed Bob, enthusiastically. “You know, Patty, this old place is my joy and my despair. I love every stick and stone of it, but I wish we could keep it up in decent order. Heigh-ho! Just wait until I’m out of college. I’ll do something then to turn an honest shilling, and every penny of it shall go to fix up the dear old place.”
“What are you going to be, Bob?”
“An engineer. There’s more chance for a fellow in that than in any other profession. Old Sinclair’s for being a lawyer, and he’ll be a good one, too, but it’s slow work.”
“You ought to go to America, Bob, if you want to get rich.”
“I would, like a shot, if I could take the old house with me. But I’m afraid it’s too big to uproot.”
“I’m afraid it is. I suppose you wouldn’t like to live in a brown-stone front on Fifth Avenue?”
“Never having seen your brown-stone Avenue, ma’am, I can’t say; but I suppose a deer park and lake and several thousand acres of meadow land are not included with each house.”
“No; not unless you take the whole of Manhattan Island.”