She did not know the proper name for all those acres of roof.  But Jane called them Down-Town.

At all times they were fascinating.  Of a winter’s day the snow whitened them into beauty.  The rain washed them with its slanting down-pour till their metal sheeting glistened as brightly as the sides of the General’s horse.  The sea-fog, advanced by the wind, blotted out all but the nearest, wrapped these in torn shrouds, and heaped itself about the dun-breathed chimneys like the smoke of a hundred fires.

She loved the roofs far more than Drive or River or wooded expanse; more because they meant so much—­and that without her having to do much pretending.  For across them, in some building which no one had ever pointed out to her, in a street through which she had never driven, was her father’s office!

She herself often selected the building he was in, placing him first in one great structure, then in another.  Whenever a new one rose, as it often did, there she promptly moved his office.  Once for a whole week he worked directly under the great glowing eye of the clock.

Just now she was standing at the side window of the nursery looking away across the roofs.  The fat old gentleman at the gray-haired house was sponging off the rubber-plant, and waving the long green leaves at her in greeting.  Gwendolyn feigned not to see.  Her lips were firmly set.  A scarlet spot of determination burned round either dimple.  Her gray eyes smouldered darkly—­with a purpose that was unswerving.

“I’m just going down there!” she said aloud.

Rustle!  Rustle!  Rustle!

It was Miss Royle, entering.  Though Saturday was yet two days away, the governess was preparing to go out for the afternoon, and was busily engaged in drawing on her gloves, her glance alternating between her task and the time-piece on the school-room mantel.

“Gwendolyn dear,” said she, “you can have such a lovely long pretend-game between now and supper, can’t you?”

Gwendolyn moved her head up and down in slow assent.  Doing so, she rubbed the tip of her nose against the smooth glass.  The glass was cool.  She liked the feel of it.

“You can travel!” enthused Miss Royle.  “And where do you think you’ll go?”

The gray eyes were searching the tiers of windows in a distant granite pile.  “Oh, Asia, I guess,” answered Gwendolyn, indifferently. (She had lately reviewed the latter part of her geography.)

“Asia?  Fine!  And how will you travel, darling?  In your sweet car?”

A pause.  Miss Royle was habitually honeyed in speech and full of suggestions when she was setting out thus.  She deceived no one.  Yet—­it was just as well to humor her.

“Oh, I’ll ride a musk-ox.  Or”—­picking at random from the fauna of the world—­“or a llama, or a’—­a’ el’phunt.”  She rubbed her nose so hard against the glass that it gave out a squeaking sound.