"So you are looking for a house," said I, pulling a bundle of papers from my desk.
"A temporary house," said Mrs. Radigan. "I don't see anything here that I should care to live in continuously. We will have to build—positively have to—and Mr. Radigan is negotiating now for a block on Fifth Avenue. He managed to rent a little box on the hills near Westbury for the summer, but I am looking for something to exist in next winter while the new house is going up."
"Here is just the thing you want." The plans were unfolded before her. "It is situated on Seventy——"
"I know," she interrupted. "That is why I came to you, seeing your name on the sign. A rather decent house on the north side, three doors from the avenue, with an American basement and——"
"French windows," said I.
"And a Dutch roof—exactly," she cried. "It is stunning."
"One of the best in town," I declared with emphasis. "Thirty feet front, six stories high. It was built last January by Mr. Bull when he had wheat cornered. Subsequently the receiver sold it to my client, who took it on speculation."
"It is stunning, but small," said Mrs. Radigan. "I should not care to live in it right along, but we can all squeeze into it for a few months, till the new one is done."
"You have a large family?" I asked.