She visited the attic that afternoon at four, when it was again neat, clean, orderly, smelling of soap and sunshine.  Standing there in the centre of the big room, freshly napped, smartly coifed, blue-serged, trim, the very concentrated essence of modernity, she eyed with stern deliberation the funeral wheat wreath in its walnut frame; the trunks; the chests; the boxes all shelved and neatly inscribed with their “H’s Fshg Tckl” and “Blk Nt Drs.”

“Barbaric!” she said aloud, though she stood there alone.  “Medieval!  Mad!  It has got to be stopped.  Slavery!” After which she went downstairs and picked golden glow for the living-room vases and scarlet salvia for the bowl in the dining room.

Still, as one saw Mrs. Brewster’s tired droop at supper that night, there is no denying that there seemed some justification for Pinky’s volcanic remarks.

Hosea Brewster announced, after supper, that he and Fred were going to have a session with the furnace; she needed going over in September before they began firing up for the winter.

“I’ll go down with you,” said Pinky.

“No, you stay up here with mother.  You’ll get all ashes and coal dust.”

But Pinky was firm.  “Mother’s half dead.  She’s going straight up to bed, after that darned old attic.  I’ll come up to tuck you in, mummy.”

And though she did not descend to the cellar until the overhauling process was nearly completed she did come down in time for the last of the scene.  She perched at the foot of the stairs and watched the two men, overalled, sooty, tobacco-wreathed, and happy.  When, finally, Hosea Brewster knocked the ashes out of his stubby black pipe, dusted his sooty hands together briskly, and began to peel his overalls, Pinky came forward.

She put her hand on his arm.  “Dad, I want to talk to you.”

“Careful there.  Better not touch me.  I’m all dirt.  G’night, Fred.”

“Listen, dad.  Mother isn’t well.”

He stopped then, with one overall leg off and the other on, and looked at her.  “Huh?  What d’you mean—­isn’t well?  Mother.”  His mouth was open.  His eyes looked suddenly strained.

“This house—­it’s killing her.  She could hardly keep her eyes open at supper.  It’s too much for her.  She ought to be enjoying herself—­like other women.  She’s a slave to the attic and all those huge rooms.  And you’re another.”

“Me?” feebly.

“Yes.  A slave to this 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.”