There are houses that cannot be detached from their own
people without protesting: every inch of mortar seems to mourn the
separation, and such a house--no matter what be done to it--is ever
murmurous with regret, whispering the old name sadly to itself
unceasingly. But the New House was of a kind to change hands without
emotion. In our swelling cities, great places of its type are useful
as financial gauges of the business tides; rich families, one after
another, take title and occupy such houses as fortunes rise and fall
--they mark the high tide. It was impossible to imagine a child's toy
wagon left upon a walk or driveway of the New House, and yet it was
--as Bibbs rightly called it--"beautiful."
What the architect thought of the "Golfo di Napoli," which hung in
its vast gold revel of rococo frame against the gray wood of the hall,
is to be conjectured--perhaps he had not seen it.
"Edith, did you say only eleven feet?" Bibbs panted, staring at it,
as the white-jacketed twin of a Pullman porter helped him to get out
of his overcoat.
"Eleven without the frame," she explained. "It's splendid, don't
you think? It lightens things up so.
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