Emma McChesney stepped out of the elevator and turned. “Car! Not I! If you're bound to come with me you'll take the subway. They're asking enough for that apartment as it is. I don't intend to drive up in a five-thousand-dollar motor and have the agent tack on an extra twenty dollars a month.”
T. . Buck smiled with engaging agreeableness. “Subway it is,” he said. “Your presence would turn even a Bronx train into a rose-garden.”
Twelve minutes later the new apartment building, with its cream-tile and red-brick Louis Somethingth facade, and its tan brick and plaster Michael-Dougherty-contractor back, loomed before them, soaring even above its lofty neighbors. On the door-step stood a maple-colored giant in a splendor of scarlet, and gold braid, and glittering buttons. The great entrance door was opened for them by a half-portion duplicate of the giant outside. In the foyer was splendor to grace a palace hall. There were great carved chairs. There was a massive oaken table. There were rugs, there were hangings, there were dim-shaded lamps casting a soft glow upon tapestry and velours.
Awaiting the pleasure of the agent, T. A. Buck, leaning upon his stick, looked about him appreciatively. “Makes the Knickerbocker lobby look like the waiting-room in an orphan asylum.”
“Don't let 'em fool you,” answered Emma McChesney, sotto voce, just before the agent popped out of his office. “It's all included in the rent. Dinky enough up-stairs. If ever I have guests that I want to impress I'll entertain 'em in the hall.”
There approached them the agent, smiling, urbane, pleasing as to manner—but not too pleasing; urbanity mixed, so to speak, with the leaven of caution.
“Ah, yes! Mrs.—er—McChesney, wasn't it? I can't tell you how many parties have been teasing me for that apartment since you looked at it. I've had to—well—make myself positively unpleasant in order to hold it for you. You said you wished your son to—”
The glittering little jewel-box of an elevator was taking them higher and higher. The agent stared hard at T. A. Buck.
Mrs. McChesney followed his gaze. “My business associate, Mr. T. A. Buck,” she said grimly.
The agent discarded caution; he was all urbanity. Their floor attained, he unlocked the apartment door and threw it open with a gesture which was a miraculous mixture of royalty and generosity.