“Can you imagine people living in such closed-in quarters?” Dorothy remarked, “I should think they would become—canned.”
“They don’t live there,—they only sleep there,” Tavia disclosed, with a show of pride. “I do not believe a single person along here ever eats a meal in his or her house. They all go out to hotels.”
“But they can’t take the babies,” said Dorothy. “I often wonder what becomes of the babies after dark, when the parks are not so attractive.”
“Do you really suppose that people do live in those vaults?” musingly asked Tavia. “I should think they would smother.”
“We can’t see the back yards,” Dorothy suggested.
“Perhaps New York is like ancient Rome—all walls and back yards.”
“But the fountains,” exclaimed Tavia, “where are they?”
“There are sunken gardens behind those walls, I imagine,” explained Dorothy, “and they must be there.”
For some moments neither spoke further. The ’bus rattled along and as they neared Thirty-fourth Street stops were made more frequently.
