“How curious. Unusual, too!” I said.
“Yes; ain't it? It was built for three sisters—Moultrie was the name—three old maids. They all lived together; the eldest owned it. I bought it from her lawyer a few years ago, and if I've spent a pound on the place first and last, I must have spent five thousand. Electric light, new servants' wing, garden—all that sort of thing. A man and his family ought to be happy after so much expense, ain't it?” He looked at me through the bottom of his glass.
“Does it affect your family much?”
“My good lady—she's a Greek, by the way—and myself are middle-aged. We can bear up against depression; but it's hard on my little girl. I say little; but she's twenty. We send her visiting to escape it. She almost lived at hotels and hydros, last year, but that isn't pleasant for her. She used to be a canary—a perfect canary—always singing. You ought to hear her. She doesn't sing now. That sort of thing's unwholesome for the young, ain't it?”
“Can't you get rid of the place?” I suggested.
“Not except at a sacrifice, and we are fond of it. Just suits us three. We'd love it if we were allowed.”
“What do you mean by not being allowed?”
“I mean because of the depression. It spoils everything.”
“What's it like exactly?”
“I couldn't very well explain. It must be seen to be appreciated, as the auctioneers say. Now, I was much impressed by the story you were telling just now.”