"Don't mean—what?" puzzled Barton.
"Do—you—live—in—a—house?" asked little Eve Edgarton abruptly. Her hands were suddenly quiet in her lap, her tousled head cocked ever so slightly to one side, her sluggish eyes incredibly dilated.
"Why, of course I live in a house," laughed Barton.
"O—h," breathed little Eve Edgarton. "Re—ally? It must be wonderful." Wiltingly her eyes, her hands, drooped back to her scrap-book again. "In—all—my—life," she resumed monotonously, "I've never spent a single night—in a real house."
"What?" questioned Barton.
"Oh, of course," explained the girl dully, "of course I've spent no end of nights in hotels and camps and huts and trains and steamers and—But—What color is your house?" she asked casually.
"Why, brown, I guess," said Barton.
"Brown, you 'guess'?" whispered the girl pitifully. "Don't you—know?"
"No, I wouldn't exactly like to swear to it," grinned Barton a bit sheepishly.
Again the girl's eyes lifted just a bit over-intently from the work in her lap.