"I don't know; I guess so. He owns the building—the Clifton."
"He's no dude," murmured Ogden to himself.
"Eh? Who said he was?"
"Oh, nobody. Who is the other?"
"That's Mr. Atwater—Mr. Ingles's architect. They're chums; were in college together. Isn't he the most fascinating-looking man you ever saw?"
"By Jove, he is distinguished, for a fact! Was he born—here?"
"Don't you think it's lovely for a man of his age to have gray hair—gray that's almost white? I shall do all I can to make my husband grayhaired before he is middle-aged!"
She laughed at her own audacity. He turned about and stared at her, and she laughed more heartily yet.
"And don't you like the twirl of his moustache? Or would you have preferred him with whiskers?—cut in a straight line right across his cheeks, with the corners near his mouth rounded off—but not too formally. And do you notice the bridge of his nose and the air it gives him? And his eyes—wait till he turns around; there, did you ever see such a hazel? He seems to have everything—youth, experience, style, family;—why did you ask if he was born here?" she demanded suddenly.
"Did I? I must have meant—is he going to die here?"