"Well, after that," said her father, "I think our little McGintums had better retire. Say good-night, Claudia."
"Not yet," said Ingles. "Not before she has learned that she may have her doubts about a contractor, perhaps, but about an architect—never. Remember that great truth. Good-night, my child. Won't you kiss me?"
He lowered his face, but Claudia drew back. "I don't like whishky," she said, solemnly.
"For Heaven's sake, my pet," cried Floyd, "are you trying to start a panic? There's Horah; go-go."
"Good-night, Claudia," called Atwater; "we won't forget your house. Upon my word, Ingles," he went on rapidly, and with a face still slightly flushed, "I believe I shall have to reconsider that determination of mine I spoke to you about the other day."
"What's that?" asked Walworth.
"To give up sky-scrapers and to do nothing but colonial houses for the nobility and gentry. Sky-scraping is bad enough, but the demands of the modern house-builder are worse. Ingles, you're not as evil as I said you were; I'm sorry I ever called you a Philistine."
"Why did you do that?" asked Fairchild, amused.
"Because," answered Ingles, "I took two weeks to consider whether I could afford to let the Clifton have four good street-fronts."
"Didn't you say," demanded Atwater, "that you wanted to put up an architectural monument that would be a credit to the town? Would an eighteen-story flank of bare brick have been a pleasant object? Or, rather, is it?—for you see that sort of business all over the city. Heavens!" he went on, "we're doing some horrible things here, but we are not the ones who are altogether to blame."