"
Mr. Warren sprawled in the most comfortable chair in the room, was
looking out through the window, across the wind-swept width of Central
Park West, over the knolls and valleys of the Park itself, now bare of
foliage and sprinkled with patches of snow. There was a discontented
look on his face, and his hands were jammed deep in his trousers
pockets.
His sister, Caroline, sat opposite to him, also looking out at the
December landscape. She, too, was discontented and unhappy, though she
tried not to show it.
"Why don't you say something," snapped Stephen, after a moment of
silence. "ISN'T it a box of a place? Now come."
"Yes," replied the young lady, without looking at her brother. "Yes,
Steve, I suppose it is. But you must remember that we must make the
best of it. I always wondered how people could live in apartments. Now I
suppose I shall have to find out."
"Well, I maintain that we don't have to. We aren't paupers, even though
father wasn't so well fixed as everyone thought. With management and
care, we could have stayed in the old house, I believe, and kept up
appearances, at least. What's the use of advertising that we're broke?"
"But, Steve, you know Mr. Graves said--"
"Oh, yes, I know. You swallowed every word Graves said, Caro, as if
he was the whole book of Proverbs.
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