As Maynard complied with the request his casual glance at Palmer was arrested by the haggard lines in his face and the puffiness under his eyes; he looked what he evidently was, an ill man.
“Pooh!” Palmer exclaimed airily. “Sleep will set me right. I believe the people in the apartment above are to move out; once rid of their infernal parties I’ll be able to work on my plans. An architect needs peace and quiet as well as powerful lights. This house is a sounding board.”
“Is it an old building?” asked Maynard.
“No, not very, built about ten years ago.”
“The rooms are very commodious,” commented Maynard, looking around the room, which was arranged with much artistic taste.
“Glad you like it,” exclaimed Palmer, much gratified. “I was the architect. By the way, Burnham, who do you suppose leased one of the smaller apartments this summer? Marian Van Ness.”
“So she told me,” returned Burnham shortly. Maynard, who had glanced up at mention of Marian’s name, helped himself thoughtfully to some Newburg.
“Any apartments vacant, Palmer?” he inquired. The architect nodded affirmatively. “Then I might rent one, as I plan to remain in Washington until December at least.”
“Surely you will stay with us?” Burnham looked hurt. “We want you to stay with us, Maynard.”
“Are you sure I won’t be imposing on your hospitality?” asked Maynard. “I feel perhaps you and Mrs. Burnham would rather not be bothered with a guest just at this time.”