“The kind I like,” she explained, “costs a hundred dollars without the stand. I don’t need the stand—we can find a table somewhere that will do.”
“Two hundred and ninety-seven dollars and twenty-three cents,” breathed Harlan, unconsciously.
“No, only a hundred dollars,” corrected Dorothy. “I don’t care to have it silver mounted.”
“I’d buy you a gold one if you wanted it,” stammered Harlan, in some confusion.
“Not now,” she returned, serenely. “Wait till the book is done.”
Visions of fame and fortune appeared before his troubled eyes and set his soul alight with high ambition. The candle in his hand burned unsteadily and dripped tallow, unheeded. “Come,” said Dorothy, gently, “let’s go downstairs again.”
An open door revealed a tortuous stairway at the back of the house, descending mysteriously into cavernous gloom. “Let’s go down here,” she continued. “I love curly stairs.”
“These are kinky enough to please even your refined fancy,” laughed Harlan. “It reminds me of travelling in the West, where you look out of the window and see your engine on the track beside you, going the other way.”
“This must be the kitchen,” said Dorothy, when the stairs finally ceased. “Uncle Ebeneezer appears to have had a pronounced fancy for kitchens.”
“Here’s another wing,” added Harlan, opening the back door. “Sitting-room, bedroom, and—my soul and body! It’s another kitchen!”