"Hugh," she said presently, as we were blacking out prospective rooms, "do you remember all those drawings and plans we made in England, on our wedding trip, and how we knew just what we wanted, and changed our minds every few days? And now we're ready to build, and haven't any ideas at all!"
"Yes," I answered—but I did not look at her.
"I have the book still—it's in the attic somewhere, packed away in a box. I suppose those plans would seem ridiculous now."
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.