"Isn't it all right, John?" she asked anxiously "What else should I get?"
"Leave it to the cook, Laura—I mean the chef. That's what he's paid for. Is there anything too good for us?"
"Not for you, John. But I sometimes think," she went on slowly after a while, "that I'm not entitled to so much as we have, when others have so little—the same sort of people that we once were. I don't understand it. I don't see where we earned it. Why, back there where we came from, life is very likely just as hard as it ever was."
"Haven't earned it!" gasped John Rawn—"I haven't earned it? Well, listen at that, to my face! Well, I'd like to ask you, Laura, if I haven't earned this, what man ever did earn his money?"
"Don't take me wrong, John dear. I was just wondering how anybody could ever earn so much."
"Well, don't get the habit of wondering."
"I like my things," said she softly, gazing about her. "I've always wanted nice things, of course. I never thought we'd have a place like this. Then the trees, and the lake—why, it's like fairyland to me!"
IV
But Rawn turned a discontented face around at the ill-assorted furnishings of Graystone Hall—as he had named his quasi-country place. As in the case of the architect, the house decorator and furnisher had had full license, and each had done his worst.
"Somehow these things don't seem just the way they are down at the club!" he grumbled. "I've been at other houses along in here, once in a while, and somehow our things don't seem just like theirs. It's not my fault. Surely you must see how busy I am all the time—I've not got the time to take care of household matters, too."