“No,” he answered. “You see, I live all alone. Dad left me a house, but––well, he didn’t leave any one in it except the servants.”
“You live in a house all by yourself?”
He nodded.
Mr. Pendleton lived in a house! That was a wonderful thing to her. She had almost forgotten that any one lived in whole houses any more. She was eager to hear more. So, when the next train came along she stepped into it, and he followed, although she had not intended to allow this.
“I wish you would tell me about your house,” she said wistfully.
So, on the way uptown, he tried to describe it to her. He told her where it was, and that quite took away her breath; and how his father had bought it; and how many rooms there were; and how it was furnished; and, finally, how he came to be living in it himself on a salary of twenty-five dollars a week. As she listened her eyes grew round and full.
“My, but you’re lucky!” she exclaimed. “I should think you’d want to spend there every minute you could get.”
“Why?” he asked in surprise.
“Just because it’s your house,” she answered. “Just because it’s all your own.”