“I don’t mean just for a little trip.  I mean to live.  Take a little two-room apartment in one of the new buildings—­near my studio—­and relax.  Enjoy yourselves.  Meet new men and women.  Live!  You’re in a rut—­both of you.  Besides, dad needs it.  That rheumatism of his, with these Wisconsin winters—­”

“But California—­we could go to California—­”

“That’s only a stop-gap.  Get your little place in New York all settled, and then run away whenever you like, without feeling that this great bulk of a house is waiting for you.  Father hates it; I know it.”

“Did he ever say so?”

“Well, practically.  He thinks you’re fond of it.  He—­”

Slow steps ascending the stairs—­heavy, painful steps.  The two women listened in silence.  Every footfall seemed to emphasize Pinky’s words.  The older woman turned her face toward the sound, her lips parted, her eyes anxious, tender.

“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.”

“Well, then, all I can say is the furniture ought to be solid gold for that; inlaid with rubies and picked out with platinum.”

But it wasn’t.  In fact, it wasn’t solid anything, being mostly of a very impermanent structure and style.  Pinky explained that she had kept the best for the last.  The thing that worried Father Brewster was that, no matter at what hour of the day they might happen to call on the prospective lessor, that person was always feminine and hatted.  Once it was eleven in the morning.  Once five in the afternoon.