“Oh, what a pretty—”
“That’s it! That’s the park! Ain’t it swell?”
“Lovely,” breathed Gloria. Without the warning of even a smoothed road they had fairly spilled into the park—Echo Park! A rustic sign swinging from a real home grown, non-transplanted, little white birch tree, announced in quaint letters, cut deep into a barked shingle:
Echo Park
“Oh,” exclaimed Gloria. “Isn’t it beautiful!”
“Ain’t it,” paraphrased Marty. “And ain’t they the dubs to condemn it?”
“Looks so,” murmured Gloria. They were off their wheels and entering the park.
“See that pretty little house in the hollow, back of the hill? That’s it!”
“Mine!”
“Ain’t it a peach?” babbled the guide. His manner was as enthusiastic as might have been the real estate agent’s in the rustic office to the left—had an agent been there.