"He's the one, then," Ogden assured himself.
"Which one?"
"Her husband. Do you know her?"
"I've met her here." She leaned over the railing. "What are they all laughing about, down there?"
"Do you want to go and see?"
Mrs. Floyd and her sister had appeared in the doorway. Between them was a little girl of five; she had one hand in her mother's, and with the other she clutched a dilapidated doll. The child wore a guimpe and a prim little frock with puffed sleeves; she had long, smooth brown hair that turned thickly at her shoulders, and a pair of big, round, wondering brown eyes.
"It's Claudia," said Jessie Bradley. "Yes, let's go down."
Atwater had placed himself before the child, half crouching, half kneeling. He had the persuasive and ingratiating manner proper to a fashionable architect whose clients were largely women and wealthy ones, and he seemed willing enough to bring his batteries to bear on the tiny woman before him.
"Isn't it pretty late for dolly? Oughtn't she to be put to bed in her own little house?"
The child looked at him soberly. "She hasn't got any house."