It was quite true,—now that we were ready to build the home that had been deferred so long, now that I had the money to spend without stint on its construction, the irony of life had deprived me of those strong desires and predilections I had known on my wedding trip. What a joy it would have been to build then! But now I found myself: wholly lacking in definite ideas as to style and construction. Secretly, I looked forward to certain luxuries, such as a bedroom and dressing-room and warm tiled bathroom all to myself bachelor privacies for which I had longed. Two mornings later at the breakfast table Maude asked me if I had thought of an architect.
“Why, Archie Lammerton, I suppose. Who else is there? Have you anyone else in mind?”
“N-no,” said Maude. “But I heard of such a clever man in Boston, who doesn't charge Mr. Lammerton's prices; and who designs such beautiful private houses.”
“But we can afford to pay Lammerton's prices,” I replied, smiling. “And why shouldn't we have the best?”
“Are you sure—he is the best, Hugh?”
“Everybody has him,” I said.
Maude smiled in return.
“I suppose that's a good reason,” she answered.
“Of course it's a good reason,” I assured her. “These people—the people we know—wouldn't have had Lammerton unless he was satisfactory. What's the matter with his houses?”
“Well,” said Maude, “they're not very original. I don't say they're not good, in away, but they lack a certain imagination. It's difficult for me to express what I mean, 'machine made' isn't precisely the idea, but there should be a certain irregularity in art—shouldn't there? I saw a reproduction in one of the architectural journals of a house in Boston by a man named Frey, that seemed to me to have great charm.”