“Could you?” he followed. “But just wait. Of course it ain’t all finished, but you can see. This is the living room—swell? This—here’s the dining room. That’s the built in boo-fay.” He paused before the leaded glass cabinet, fondly, proudly. “And just wait, see here, ain’t that some kitchen?”
“Simply—beautiful,” Gloria couldn’t adequately express her delight. In fact, a real fairy over by that long, white built-in table, mixing up an angel cake, could hardly have added to her surprise, it was all so fairy like.
“It’s a model, you know,” explained Marty. “They call it the model bungalow, but there’s an upstairs. Come on up.” He was as eager as little Dick had been when Trixy’s car swung up the path, or as Tommy had been when he fetched Miss Trivett’s potted geranium slip to his mother. Boys were so satisfactory, thought Gloria. They always seemed so genuine. Perhaps lade of polish displayed their personal gleams.
Upstairs fully sustained the reputation of the first floor. While the woodwork was unfinished it was all so prettily laid out.
“Here’s where the bathroom was to be. See the holes for the shower?” Marty stood in the basin-bed and looked up, probably feeling an invisible shower trickle over him delightfully.
“And it’s all wired for the lights,” commented Gloria. “What ever did they intend to do with it? Surely no sensible man would leave a place like this?”
“But there wasn’t any more money! And Sherry Graves got sick, awful sick. He just had to beat it for China or some place. So who was to finish it? Mr. Travers, your girl friend’s father, told dad he’d see it through if he had to get engineers from Washington. But they don’t dast tackle a job till Spring,” concluded Marty with a wag of his business like head.
Gloria glanced out of a paint stained window. “We’ll have to hurry, Marty,” she said. “It will be dark early tonight.”
“Sure. Come on down to the cellar. I’ll bet it’s full of the rain,” he predicted.
They wended their way down to complete the novel survey.