“But the freedom—”
“Women hadn’t ought to have too much freedom. It spoils ’em. This is the born place for a man—and a dog—and field-glasses—and a Ford.”
“Let’s go inside and look it over,” said Eveley. “Did you ever see such a place for chickens? Nice clean little coops all ready for them. Wouldn’t it be a paradise for half a dozen hens?”
“It’s a lot of work raising chickens,” said the old man. “It’s a job for a man, really. You wouldn’t like it.” Then, thoughtfully: “Half a day’s work would make that place fit for the king’s pullets.”
“And look at the cunning little garden,” urged Eveley.
“Needs hoeing. All run over with weeds. Whole place going to rack and ruin. Needs a man around here, anybody can see that.”
“Come in, come in,” cried Eveley, unlocking the kitchen door. “See the little gas stove, and the tiny table—and the cooler. Isn’t it fun? Couldn’t you have the time of your life here, reveling in liver and cabbage and pinochle? Wouldn’t your friend be crazy about it?”
The old man squirmed restlessly, and passed into the next room. Eveley dropped down on the side of the bed, and set the springs bounding.
“It is a good bed. That table seems made for pinochle, doesn’t it? I can just see this place, with you and your friend, the room thick with smoke—and no one to say, ‘Oh, father, it’s terribly late.’” Eveley put up a very fair imitation of Mrs. Severs’ ripply, bridal voice.
“A phonograph—there ought to be a phonograph, to play Bonnie Sweet Bessie, and Nelly Gray.”