"Oh yes, it will," said Bingham, soothingly.
"Oh no, it won't," returned Jane, permitting herself the luxury of a little woe. "Even if we do have wreaths of flowers in all the washbowls, and transoms that you can open and shut without getting on to chairs, and a what-you-may-call-it to regulate the furnace heat without going down cellar—all the same, it won't be our dear old home."
"No; a better one."
"Well," said Jane, resignedly. She lifted her eyes and pointed her finger aloft. "I suppose I shall be up there, somewhere."
"Oh, not yet," replied Bingham, bringing his eyes back from the clouds.
"You look very well fitted for your present sphere."
"I didn't mean all the way up," said Jane, smilingly dismal. "I only meant the next floor—yet awhile."
"That's better. Don't be an angel just yet; you're too useful here."
"If not ornamental."
"Too ornamental, too."
"I never claimed to be that," observed Jane, dropping her eyes. "Do you think I'm—improving?"