"It's mine."
"Now, you take any other house in New York that you want," she cajoled. "Fifth Avenue is still nice. Any one can live on Fifth Avenue, though. But to have a real house on Battery Place—that's different."
"My idea exactly."
She sat bolt upright. "You aren't serious. You don't mean the mosaic-front house with the little pillars?"
"The oldest house left on Battery Place. That's it."
"And you claim it's yours?"
"Practically. I don't exactly own it—"
"Then you never will. I've wished it in," she announced with the calmness of finality.
"Think how good for you it would be not to get something you wanted. The tonic effect of a life-size disappointment—"
"No," she said, shaking her head violently, "it wouldn't be good for me at all. I should cry and become a red-nosed mess again. I'm—going—to—have—that—house. Why, Mr. Dad—Mr. Smi—Mr. Man," she cried, with a gesture of desperation, "I've owned that house in my mind for five years."