He raised his hat;
she could not tell whether he were in jest or in earnest.
"It needs all the luck it can have," said Jane. "It may be a nice house,
but it will never be home."
"Oh yes, it will," said Bingham, soothingly.
"Oh no, it won't," returned Jane, permitting herself the luxury of a
little woe. "Even if we _do_ have wreaths of flowers in all the
washbowls, and transoms that you can open and shut without getting on to
chairs, and a what-you-may-call-it to regulate the furnace heat without
going down cellar--all the same, it won't be our dear old home."
"No; a better one."
"Well," said Jane, resignedly. She lifted her eyes and pointed her finger
aloft. "I suppose I shall be up there, somewhere."
"Oh, not yet," replied Bingham, bringing his eyes back from the clouds.
"You look very well fitted for your present sphere."
"I didn't mean all the way up," said Jane, smilingly dismal. "I only
meant the next floor--yet awhile."
"That's better. Don't be an angel just yet; you're too useful here."
"If not ornamental."
"Too ornamental, too."
"I never claimed to be that," observed Jane, dropping her eyes. "Do you
think I'm--improving?"
Jane stood there on the foundations, clad in the ample and voluminous
fashion of the day and topped off with a distinctly stylish hat. She had
had a long regimen of fencing and dumbbells, and her self-imposed
superintendence of the new house had led to many hours spent in the open
air.
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