Part 6 (1/2)

”Do these New York women wear hats in the house all the time?” demanded Hosea Brewster, worriedly. ”I think they sleep in 'em. It's a wonder they ain't bald. Maybe they are. Maybe that's why. Anyway, it makes you feel like a book agent.”

He sounded excited and tired, ”Now, father!” said Mrs. Brewster, soothingly.

They were in the elevator that was taking them up to the fourth and (according to Pinky) choicest apartment. The building was what is known as a studio apartment, in the West Sixties. The corridors were done in red flagstones, with gray-tone walls. The metal doors were painted gray.

Pinky was snickering. ”Now she'll say: 'Well, _we've_ been very comfortable here.' They always do. Don't look too eager.”

”No fear,” put in Hosey Brewster.

”It's really lovely. And a real fireplace. Everything new and good.

She's asking two hundred and twenty-five. Offer her one seventy-five.

She'll take two hundred.”

”You bet she will,” growled Hosea.

She answered the door--hatted; hatted in henna, that being the season's chosen colour. A small, dark foyer, overcrowded with furniture; a studio living room, bright, high-ceilinged, smallish; one entire side was window. There were j.a.panese prints, and a baby grand piano, and a lot of tables, and a davenport placed the way they do it on the stage, with its back to the room and its arms to the fireplace, and a long table just behind it, with a lamp on it, and books, and a dull jar thing, just as you've see it in the second-act library.

Hosea Brewster twisted his head around and up to gaze at the lofty ceiling. ”Feel's if I was standing at the bottom of a well,” he remarked.

But the hatted one did not hear him. ”No; no dining room,” she was saying, briskly. ”No, indeed. I always use this gate-legged table. You see? It pulls out like this. You can easily seat six--eight, in fact.”

”Heaven forbid!” in fervent _sotto voce_ from Father Brewster.

”It's an enormous saving in time and labour.”

”The--kitchen!” inquired Mrs. Brewster.

The hat waxed playful. ”You'll never guess where the kitchen is!” She skipped across the room. ”You see this screen?” They saw it. A really handsome affair, and so placed at one end of the room that it looked a part of it. ”Come here.” They came. The reverse side of the screen was dotted with hooks, and on each hook hung a pot, a pan, a ladle, a spoon.

And there was the tiny gas range, the infinitesimal ice chest, the miniature sink. The whole would have been lost in one corner of the Brewster's Winnebago china closet.

”Why, how--how wonderful!” breathed Mrs. Brewster.

”Isn't it? So complete--and so convenient. I've cooked roasts, steaks, chops, everything right here. It's just play.”

A terrible fear seized upon Father Brewster. He eyed the sink and the tiny range with a suspicious eye. ”The beds,” he demanded, ”where are the beds?”

She opened the little oven door and his heart sank. But, ”They're upstairs,” she said. ”This is a duplex, you know.”

A little flight of winding stairs ended in a balcony. The rail was hung with a gay mandarin robe. Two more steps and you were in the bedroom--a rather breathless little bedroom, profusely rose-coloured, and with whole battalions of photographs in flat silver frames standing about on dressing table, shelf, desk. The one window faced a gray brick wall.

They took the apartment. And thus began a life of ease and gayety for Mr. and Mrs. Hosea C. Brewster, of Winnebago, Wisconsin.

Pinky had dinner with them the first night, and they laughed a great deal, what with one thing and another. She sprang up to the balcony, and let down her bright hair, and leaned over the railing, _a la_ Juliet, having first decked Hosey out in a sketchy but effective Romeo costume consisting of a hastily s.n.a.t.c.hed up scarf over one shoulder, Pinky's little turban, and a frying pan for a lute. Mother Brewster did the Nurse, and by the time Hosea began his limping climb up the balcony, the turban over one eye and the scarf winding itself about his stocky legs, they ended by tumbling in a heap of tearful laughter.

After Pinky left there came upon them, in that cozy little two-room apartment, a feeling of desolation and vastness, and a terrible loneliness such as they had never dreamed of in the great twelve-room house in Winnebago. They kept close to each other. They toiled up the winding stairs together and stood a moment on the balcony, feigning a light-heartedness that neither of them felt.

They lay very still in the little stuffy rose-coloured room, and the street noises of New York came up to them--a loose chain flapping against the mud guard of a taxi; the jolt of a flat-wheeled Eighth Avenue street car; the roar of an L train; laughter; the bleat of a motor horn; a piano in the apartment next door, or upstairs, or down.

She thought, as she lay there, choking, of the great, gracious gray-and-blue room at home, many-windowed, sweet-smelling, quiet. Quiet!