"And glass in the windows?"
"Yes. Dear me, they get more exacting with us every year!"
"And—and—" she rolled her eyes around the group, as if wondering whether any important detail had been overlooked—"gas-fixtures? Would there be one in every room, with four globes on it?"
"Perhaps."
"But don't charge the poor child a full commission on them," said Ingles, grimly.
"Ah!" murmured Atwater, with a world of meaning. "And if I were to promise to put a nice little red chimney on the roof—what would you say?"
The child clasped her doll firmly and looked down at the carpet. "I shouldn't know whether to belave you," she said, shyly.
There was a burst of laughter. "You dear little tot!" cried Mrs. Fairchild, gathering her up, on no very definite grounds, for a kiss. Her father laughed loudest of all, but her mother contracted her eyebrows in distress.
"That dreadful Horah!" whimpered the poor woman. "She must go."
"Don't dismiss your bonne," laughed Atwater, thankful for the diversion; "she'll produce a beautiful accent in time."