“As a matter of fact, it is somebody else’s—namely my husband’s,” rejoined that gentleman’s consort with dignity.
“O, well, that is a mere detail which does not affect the case,” remarked the caller easily. “Of course the point is whether you would make any objection to his parting with it.”
Mrs. Derwall glanced vaguely about. As a matter of fact, she and Lou had discussed the matter no later than last night. But to have the hypothetical purchaser suddenly materialise made her search her own mind again. Besides, she felt an indefinable resentment against her visitor for having turned out so much less interesting than he seemed to promise.
“What in the world do you want of the place?” she asked at last.
“Nothing improper, I assure you! I merely want to live in it.”
“But why? Have you ever been in it before? Does it hold some romance for you?”
“Romance! Heavens no! What have romance and I to do with each other? I am a married man. I just happened to be passing by, and it beckoned to me. ‘That is the house for me,’ I said, and I walked straight in.”
“But what do you see in it?” demanded Mrs. Derwall, casting her eye once more about.
“I see everything you don’t,” responded the caller quickly. “To say nothing of a very agreeable hostess, it’s just the right size, it’s just the right colour, it’s in just the right place. How did you happen to build it so exactly for me?”
“We didn’t!”