His eyes looked suddenly strained.
"This house--it's killing her. She could hardly keep here eyes open at
supper. It's too much for her. She ought to be enjoying herself--like
those huge rooms. And you're another."
"Me?" feebly.
"Yes. A slave to his furnace. You said yourself to Fred, just now, that
it was all worn out, and needed new pipes or something--I don't know
what. And that coal was so high it would be cheaper using dollar bills
for fuel. Oh, I know you were just being funny. But it was partly true.
Wasn't it? Wasn't it?"
"Yeh, but listen here, Paula." He never called her Paula unless he was
terribly disturbed. "About mother--you said--"
"You and she ought to go away this winter--not just for a trip, but to
stay. You"--she drew a long breath and made the plunge--"you ought to
give up the house."
"Give up--"
"Permanently. Mother and you are buried alive here. You ought to come to
New York to live. Both of you will love it when you are there for a few
days. I don't mean to come to a hotel. I mean to take a little
apartment, a furnished apartment at first to see how you like it--two
rooms and kitchenette, like a play-house."
Hosey Brewster looked down at his own big bulk. Then around the great
furnace room. "Oh, but listen--"
"No, I want you to listen first. Mother's worn out, I tell you. It isn't
as if she were the old-fashioned kind; she isn't. She loves the
theatres, and pretty hats, and shoes with buckles, and lobster, and
concerts.
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