“I’d hate to live up here in summer, Bert,” said Ted Trafford, carefully easing his five feet and ten inches of tired, aching body to the window-seat and turning a perspiring face to the faint breeze that entered. “It must be hotter than Tophet.”
“Well, it’s up high enough to get the air, isn’t it?”
“Oh, it’s high enough, all right! If I had to climb those three flights of stairs a dozen times a day——”
“Wonder why slate stairs seem harder than others,” said Nick Blake, fanning himself with a magazine.
“Because they are harder, naturally.” Ted looked about the study. “It isn’t so bad, though, when you get here. And I dare say it’ll be fine in winter. You haven’t an open fireplace, though.”
“I had one last year in 19. It was only a bother. If I had a fire the ashes got all over the shop. Besides, it was always so warm in the room that when I wanted one I had to keep all the windows open. There’s dandy steam heat in Lothrop.”
“There is in Trow, but——”
“Oh, get out, Ted!” interrupted Nick. “I’ve been in your study when the thermometer wasn’t over fifty! Everyone knows that Trow’s a regular barn in cold weather.”
“Well, some days, when the wind’s a certain way——”