Come right downstairs when
you're ready. Anything else you want? No? All right then. You needn't
hurry. Supper's waited an hour 'n' a half as 'tis. 'Twon't hurt it to
wait a spell longer."
She went away, closing the door after her. The bewildered, wet and
shivering New Yorker stared about the room, which, to his surprise, was
warm and cozy. The warmth was furnished, so he presently discovered,
by a steam radiator in the corner. Radiators and a bathroom! These were
modern luxuries he would have taken for granted, had Elisha Warren been
the sort of man he expected to find, the country magnate, the leading
citizen, fitting brother to the late A. Rodgers Warren, of Fifth Avenue
and Wall Street.
But the Captain Warren who had driven him to South Denboro in the rain
was not that kind of man at all. His manner and his language were as far
removed from those of the late A. Rodgers as the latter's brown stone
residence was from this big rambling house, with its deep stairs and
narrow halls, its antiquated pictures and hideous, old-fashioned wall
paper; as far removed as Miss Baker, whom the captain had hurriedly
introduced as "my second cousin keepin' house for me," was from the
dignified butler at the mansion on Fifth Avenue. Patchwork comforters
and feather beds were not, in the lawyer's scheme of things, fit
associates for radiators and up-to-date bathrooms.
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