“Very good, Miss Towne,” and Waldron backed out impressively, the round eyes of the little boys upon him.
Edith gave them the freedom of the amazing refrigerator, which was white as milk and as big as a house, and they brought forth with some hesitation viands which seemed as unreal as the rest of it—cold roast chickens with white frills on their legs, a plate of salad with patterns on top of it in red peppers and little green buttons which Evans said were capers—the remains of a glorified sort of Charlotte Russe—a castellated affair with candied fruits.
“Do they eat things like this every day?” Sandy asked Evans, with something like awe, “or am I dreamin’?”
Evans nodded. “Some feast, isn’t it, old chap?” He was warmed by the radiance of the freckled boyish face.
Arthur Lane, always less talkative, had little to say. He was steeping himself in atmosphere. He had never been in a house like this. The kitchen with its panelled ceiling, its white enamel, its gleaming nickel, its firm, white painted furniture—its white and brown tiling. It was all as utterly fascinating as the things he read about in the fairy books.
“Now the kitchen,” he said at last to Towne, “what’s it so big for? Ain’t there only three of them in the family?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there are six of us at home, and you could put four of our kitchens into this. And that refrigerator—it’s so big you could live in it. You know, Mr. Follette, it’s bigger than our scout tents.”
“Yes, it is,” Evans smiled at him. “Well, when people have so much money, they think they need things.”
“I’d like it.” The boy was eager. “Wouldn’t you?”