[Illustration: "'Isn't it pretty late for Dolly?'"]
"Hasn't got any house?" He glanced at her father. "'Oh, it is
pitiful--in a whole cityful.' But if I were to say that I would make
you one?" he went on; "one with four rooms. And windows in each
room."
The child pondered, fixing a bashful look on his handsome face.
"Would there be stairs?"
"Yes."
"And closets? Mamma says we never have enough closet-room."
"That's right, Claudia," said Ingles, commendingly; "score the
profession."
"Yes, closets, if you insist."
"And glass in the windows?"
"Yes. Dear me, they get more exacting with us every year!"
"And--and--" she rolled her eyes around the group, as if wondering
whether any important detail had been overlooked--"gas-fixtures? Would
there be one in every room, with four globes on it?"
"Perhaps."
"But don't charge the poor child a full commission on them," said
Ingles, grimly.
"Ah!" murmured Atwater, with a world of meaning. "And if I were to
promise to put a nice little red chimney on the roof--what would you
say?"
The child clasped her doll firmly and looked down at the carpet. "I
shouldn't know whether to belave you," she said, shyly.
There was a burst of laughter. "You dear little tot!" cried Mrs.
Fairchild, gathering her up, on no very definite grounds, for a kiss.
Her father laughed loudest of all, but her mother contracted her
eyebrows in distress.
"That dreadful Horah!" whimpered the poor woman. "She must go."
"Don't dismiss your _bonne_," laughed Atwater, thankful for the
diversion; "she'll produce a beautiful accent in time."
"Well, after that," said her father, "I think our little McGintums had
better retire. Say good-night, Claudia."
"Not yet," said Ingles. "Not before she has learned that she may have
her doubts about a contractor, perhaps, but about an architect--never.
Remember that great truth. Good-night, my child. Won't you kiss me?"
He lowered his face, but Claudia drew back. "I don't like whishky," she
said, solemnly.
"For Heaven's sake, my pet," cried Floyd, "are you trying to start a
panic? There's Horah; go-go."
"Good-night, Claudia," called Atwater; "we won't forget your
house. Upon my word, Ingles," he went on rapidly, and with a face
still slightly flushed, "I believe I shall have to reconsider that
determination of mine I spoke to you about the other day."
"What's that?" asked Walworth.
"To give up sky-scrapers and to do nothing but colonial houses for the
nobility and gentry. Sky-scraping is bad enough, but the demands of the
modern house-builder are worse. Ingles, you're not as evil as I said
you were; I'm sorry I ever called you a Philistine."
"Why did you do that?" asked Fairchild, amused.
"Because," answered Ingles, "I took two weeks to consider whether I
could afford to let the Clifton have four good street-fronts."
"Didn't you say," demanded Atwater, "that you wanted to put up an
architectural monument that would be a credit to the town? Would an
eighteen-story flank of bare brick have been a pleasant object? Or,
rather, is it?--for you see that sort of business all over the city.
Heavens!" he went on, "we're doing some horrible things here, but we
are not the ones who are altogether to blame."
"Who says you haven't done well with the Clifton?" demanded Ann Wilde.
Host of the ladies had retired from these masculine topics, and were
huddled in a gossipy little group at the foot of the stairs; Ann
had remained behind, as an owner of real property. "That system of
elevators is the most magnificent thing I ever saw."
Atwater groaned. "That's all a building is nowadays--one mass of pipes,
pulleys, wires, tubes, shafts, chutes, and what not, running through
an iron cage of from fourteen, to twenty stages. Then the artist
comes along and is asked to apply the architecture by festooning on a
lot of tile, brick, and terra-cotta. And over the whole thing hovers
incessantly the demon of Nine-per-cent."
"A slap at me," said Ingles.
"It's enough to make you wonder whether Pericles ever lived. I doubt if
he did," concluded Atwater.
"Are you the only sufferer?" asked his client. "How many of our
sub-contractors failed?"
"Two."
"How many times were we set on fire by salamanders?"
"Three."
"How many drunken night-watchmen were discharged?"
"Four or five."
"How much of the tin-work did you condemn?"
"Lots."
"How many of the contractors suffered a penalty for over-time?"
"Too many."
"How many times did carpenters wreck plaster-work?"
"Fifty."
"How many times did plasterers ruin woodwork?"
"A hundred."
"How many men were killed or injured?"
"Thirteen."
"Thirteen!" cried Ann Wilde; "how horrible!" "Then you don't encourage
building," commented Bradley; "and Mr. Atwater wouldn't encourage young
men to go into architecture."
"As engineers, not as architects," replied Atwater. "Or shall I say--as
constructionists?"
"Good word," murmured Ingles.
"Thanks. I've got fifteen draughtsmen up under the roof of the Clifton.
When a new one comes, I say, 'My dear boy, go in for mining or
dredging, or build bridges, or put up railway sheds, if you must; but
don't go on believing that architecture nowadays has any great place
for the artist. There won't be another Fair until long after you are
dead and gone.'"
"I think I've had one of your young men with me lately," Bradley said.
"He told us that he had been designing labels out at the Stock Yards,
but had been in your office before that. Art may cover a wide range,
you see," he said, laughing.
"Yes? What is his name?"
"Brainard, I think. He was a dark young fellow. He looked a little
dissipated, it seemed to me."
"That's the one," said Atwater. "Now there's a case. That boy's father
has treated him shamefully. He might have been made something of. He
had a decided taste for drawing, and hardly any other. I won't say he
had any great ability, but that wouldn't have mattered so much with
training. However, he had no training to speak of, and we couldn't use
him. He hasn't got the slightest faculty for business; they wouldn't
have made a teller out of him in twenty years. But that was what they
tried to do, and when it failed--"
Fairchild gave a delicate little cough.
"You don't have to listen, Fairchild," said Atwater. "Neither does Mr.
Pratt, unless he chooses."
Fairchild withdrew a little from the group and stood with his hands
behind his back, while the toe of his boot moved the corner of a rug
to and fro over the polished floor. Freddy Pratt held his place, but
moderated his show of interest. Ogden followed this new recital with a
curious concern.
"His father lost all patience with him," Atwater went on. "Naturally,
such a father would with such a son. He's altogether out of the family
now. Is he with you yet?" he asked Bradley.
"We had him for a while, but he was pretty irregular and unreliable--I
never knew why until now. He was pretty shabby, too. I guess he was
about grazing bottom most of the time. I never knew what Brainard he
was."
"Anyway, he seems to have made a good try," said Ingles. "I suppose
he'll live on post-obits, now, and go to the dogs as fast as possible."
"If he's let go his hold lately," declared Atwater, "it's on account of
his brother. Everything's done for him; he is just run right ahead. Do
you know," he continued, dropping his voice and glancing aside towards
Fairchild, "that Brainard has just pushed that Burt of his into the
vice-presidency? Right over everybody. I don't see how Fairchild can
stand it. And what could be better calculated to infuriate the other
one--what is his name?--Marcus. I'd take to drink myself."
Ogden listened to all this, and was swayed accordingly. His brief,
fluttering attempt to idealize Abbie Brainard ended, and he saw her
only in the cold, garish light of crass reality that was beating down
so fiercely on the rest of the family. He had been meditating on
calling upon her at her father's house, moved by the kind of sympathy
that anticipates an invitation, or does without one; this project he
now determined to abandon.