“Of course it is, old chap,” admitted Tom. “That’s just the trouble. It’s too good—too nice—too new. It makes our rug, and the old armchairs—to say nothing of the clock—look like a second-hand store in the presence of a Louis the Fourteenth drawing room. It won’t do, old man.”
For a moment Frank stared at the new piece of furniture. Then he sat down on it, sinking low in its luxurious depths.
“It’s mighty comfortable,” he murmured.
“Where did you say the old one was?” asked Tom softly.
“I had the janitor carry it down to the cellar.”
“I wonder,” began Phil gently, “I wonder if we could get it up again to-night, without making too much of a row? Somehow, I don’t like the idea of eating a spread in here with that new davenport staring us in the face. It’s like a stranger that hasn’t been properly introduced.”
“Oh, yes, I guess we can get the old one back,” agreed Frank, and, somehow his voice did not show much disappointment that his surprise had proved a boomerang. “I fixed it up, after a fashion, or, rather, I had the janitor do it. I was thinking we might give it to him.”
“Give away our old sofa!” cried Phil, Tom and Sid in a chorus. “Never!”
“This one surely doesn’t fit in this room—not with your other antiques,” ventured Holly Cross.
Frank got up, walked across the apartment, and took a survey of his surprise. Then he slowly shook his head.