"How tired he sounds," said Pinky; "and old. And he's only--why, dad's
only fifty-eight."
"Fifty-seven," snapped Mrs. Brewster sharply, protectingly.
Pinky leaned forward and kissed her. "Good night, mummy dear. You're so
tired, aren't you?"
Her father stood in the doorway.
"Good night, dear. I ought to be tucking you into bed. It's all turned
around, isn't it? Biscuits and honey for breakfast, remember."
So Pinky went off to her own room (_sans_ "slp cov") and slept soundly,
dreamlessly, as does one whose work is well done.
Three days later Pinky left. She waved a good-bye from the car platform,
a radiant, electric, confident Pinky, her work well done.
"_Au 'voir!_ The first of November! Everything begins then. You'll love
it. You'll be real New Yorkers by Christmas. Now, no changing your
minds, remember."
And by Christmas, somehow, miraculously, there they were, real New
Yorkers; or as real and as New York as anyone can be who is living in a
studio apartment (duplex) that has been rented (furnished) from a lady
who turned out to be from Des Moines.
When they arrived, Pinky had four apartments waiting for their
inspection. She told them this in triumph and well she might, it being
the winter after the war when New York apartments were as scarce as
black diamonds and twice as costly.
Father Brewster, on hearing the price, emitted a long low whistle and
said: "How many rooms did you say?"
Two--and a kitchenette, of course.
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