O'Neil's living-quarters consisted of a good-sized room adjoining the office-building. Pausing at the door, he told his visitors:
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but your zeal is utterly misplaced. I live like a pasha, in the midst of debilitating luxuries, as you will see for yourselves." He waved them proudly inside.
The room was bare, damp, and chill; it was furnished plentifully, but it was in characteristically masculine disorder. The bed was tumbled, the stove was half filled with cold ashes, the water pitcher on the washstand had frozen. In one corner was a heap of damp clothing, now stiff with frost.
"Of course, it's a little upset," he apologized. "I wasn't expecting callers, you know."
"When was it made up last?" Eliza inquired, a little weakly.
"Yesterday, of course."
"Are you sure?"
"Now, see here," he said, firmly; "I haven't time to make beds, and everybody else is busier than I am. I'm not in here enough to make it worth while—I go to bed late, and I tumble out before dawn."
The girls exchanged meaning glances. Eliza began to lay off her furs.
"Not bad, is it?" he said, hopefully.