When he spoke at last it was with grave quiet, in a gentler tone than that which he had used the day before in his own library.
“You helped Anthony furnish this house?”
“Yes, father.”
“Do you mind telling me how much you had at your disposal?”
“Five hundred dollars.” Juliet maintained her position without moving, and her face was out of sight.
“Did this include the repairs upon the place?”
“Yes—but you know wages are low just now and lumber is cheap. Having no roof to the porch made it inexpensive. The painting Anthony helped at himself. He worked every minute of his two weeks’ vacation on whatever would cost most to hire done.”
“Anthony worked at painting the house?” There was astonishment in Mr. Marcy’s voice. He had known the Robesons of Kentucky all his life. He had never seen one of them lift his hand to do manual labour. There had been no need.
“Yes,” said Juliet, and the cheek which rested against her father’s knee began to grow warm.
“You have obtained a somewhat extraordinary effect of harmony and comfort inside the house,” Mr. Marcy pursued. “It is difficult to understand just how you brought it about with so small an expenditure of money.”