and on."

She was silent. But later, when we took a hansom and entered the streams
of traffic, she responded to the stimulus of the place: the movement, the
colour, the sight of the well-appointed carriages, of the well-fed,
well-groomed people who sat in them, the enticement of the shops in which
we made our purchases had their effect, and she became cheerful again....

In the evening we took the "Limited" for home.

We lived for a month with my mother, and then moved into our own house.
It was one which I had rented from Howard Ogilvy, and it stood on the
corner of Baker and Clinton streets, near that fashionable neighbourhood
called "the Heights." Ogilvy, who was some ten years older than I, and
who belonged to one of our old families, had embarked on a career then
becoming common, but which at first was regarded as somewhat meteoric:
gradually abandoning the practice of law, and perceiving the
possibilities of the city of his birth, he had "gambled" in real estate
and other enterprises, such as our local water company, until he had
quadrupled his inheritance. He had built a mansion on Grant Avenue, the
wide thoroughfare bisecting the Heights. The house he had vacated was not
large, but essentially distinctive; with the oddity characteristic of the
revolt against the banal architecture of the 80's. The curves of the
tiled roof enfolded the upper windows; the walls were thick, the note one
of mystery. I remember Maude's naive delight when we inspected it.

"You'd never guess what the inside was like, would you, Hugh?" she cried.

From the panelled box of an entrance hall one went up a few steps to a
drawing-room which had a bowed recess like an oriel, and window-seats.
The dining-room was an odd shape, and was wainscoted in oak; it had a
tiled fireplace and (according to Maude) the "sweetest" china closet
built into the wall. There was a "den" for me, and an octagonal
reception-room on the corner. Upstairs, the bedrooms were quite as
unusual, the plumbing of the new pattern, heavy and imposing. Maude
expressed the air of seclusion when she exclaimed that she could almost
imagine herself in one of the mediaeval towns we had seen abroad.

"It's a dream, Hugh," she sighed. "But--do you think we can afford
it?"...

"This house," I announced, smiling, "is only a stepping-stone to the
palace I intend to build you some day."

"I don't want a palace!" she cried. "I'd rather live here, like this,
always."

A certai