"A chicken-house!" exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, with second thoughts of disgust.
"Yes, nobody can come near but Edgar; and if he does, he'll have to scrub."
"Thank you very much," and the young man raised his eyebrows: "I have my own work to do, you may remember." Scrubbing chicken-houses he thought might even eclipse the memory of lighting the oil-stove.
"Of course," returned Phil, all attention. "I'm extremely interested in this determination of yours. You certainly have the goods."
"So they tell me," said Edgar, and twisted his mustache.
"What are you going to do for furniture?" asked Mrs. Fabian. "You must at least have some chairs and a table."
"And a lounge!" cried Phil,—"and an oil-stove." He laughed toward Edgar. "I'm going to live there, best of aunts, and maybe take my dinners with Jane, the star of my existence!"
"Phil, you're crazy," said Mrs. Fabian, despairing. "You will continue to live here and work over there."
He shook his head gaily. "Don't worry. Just watch; and if you have any attic treasures in the way of furniture, let me store them for you."