“Apparently they didn't.”
“You told me they were going to. And you told Ang—Carlo they were going to.”
“Did I? So I did. They must have changed their minds.”
“Who ordered it down?” inquired Carlo mildly.
“The fire department,” I said promptly. “On account of the inflammable nature of steel wire, I suppose.”
“I mean the sanitary inspectors,” I hastily corrected myself.
“For fear that somebody might sleep in it and catch cold! Of course!”
“Well, the fact is—”
“The fact is,” said Miss Paula Varick, “that you're a wicked old, scheming old, blessed old fibber.”
And she then and there pounced upon me and kissed me under the left ear, in the full and astounded sight of Our Square. Carlo's hand covered hers as it rested on my shoulder, and we three lifted our faces again to the cage, standing unchanged on the housetop, gaunt and grim and lifeless. As we looked, the sun, striking through the edges of a cloud,—such as angels descend from,—touched the harsh, dull metal to flaming crimson and glowing gold, and made of it a living glory, as love makes a living glory of life.