Everybody has him," I said.

Maude smiled in return.

"I suppose that's a good reason," she answered.

"Of course it's a good reason," I assured her. "These people--the people
we know--wouldn't have had Lammerton unless he was satisfactory. What's
the matter with his houses?"

"Well," said Maude, "they're not very original. I don't say they're not
good, in away, but they lack a certain imagination. It's difficult for me
to express what I mean, 'machine made' isn't precisely the idea, but
there should be a certain irregularity in art--shouldn't there? I saw a
reproduction in one of the architectural journals of a house in Boston by
a man named Frey, that seemed to me to have great charm."

Here was Lucia, unmistakably.

"That's all very well," I said impatiently, "but when one has to live in
a house, one wants something more than artistic irregularity. Lammerton
knows how to build for everyday existence; he's a practical man, as well
as a man of taste, he may not be a Christopher Wrenn, but he understands
conveniences and comforts. His chimneys don't smoke, his windows are
tight, he knows what systems of heating are the best, and whom to go to:
he knows what good plumbing is. I'm rather surprised you don't appreciate
that, Maude, you're so particular as to what kind of rooms the children
shall have, and you want a schoolroom-nursery with all the latest
devices, with sun and ventilation. The Berringers wouldn't have had him,
the Hollisters and Dickinsons wouldn't have had him if his work lacked
taste."

"And Nancy wouldn't have had him," added Maude, and she smiled once more.

"Well, I haven't consulted Nancy, or anyone else," I replied--a little
tartly, perhaps. "You don't seem to realize that some fashions may have a
basis of reason. They are not all silly, as Lucia seems to think. If
Lammerton builds satisfactory houses, he ought to be forgiven for being
the fashion, he ought to have a chance." I got up to leave. "Let's see
what kind of a plan he'll draw up, at any rate."

Her glance was almost indulgent.

"Of course, Hugh. I want you to be satisfied, to be pleased," she said.

"And you?" I questioned, "you are to live in the house more than I."

"Oh, I'm sure it will turn out all right," she replied. "Now you'd better
run along, I know you're late."

"I am late," I admitted, rather lamely. "If you don't care for
Lammerton's drawings, we'll get another architect."

Several years before Mr. Lammerton had