“He appears to be willing.  I can’t get the hang of Henderson.  He doesn’t seem to care what his wife does.  He’s a cynical cuss.  The other night, at dinner, in Washington, when the thing was talked over, he said:  ’My dear, I don’t know why you shouldn’t do that as well as anything.  Let’s build a house of gold, as Nero did; we are in the Roman age.’  Carmen looked dubious for a moment, but she said, ’You know, Rodney, that you always used to say that some time you would show New York what a house ought to be in this climate.’  ‘Well, go on,’ and he laughed.  ‘I suppose lightning will not strike that sooner than anything else.’” “Seems to me,” said the Major, reflectively, reaching out his hand for the brown mug, “the way he gives that woman her head, and doesn’t care what she does, he must have a contempt for her.”

“I wish somebody had that sort of contempt for me,” said Jack, filling up his glass also.

“But, I tell you,” he continued, “Mrs. Henderson has caught on to the new notions.  Her idea is the union of all the arts.  She has already got the refusal of a square ’way up-town, on the rise opposite the Park, and has been consulting architects about it.  It is to be surrounded with the building, with a garden in the interior, a tropical garden, under glass in the winter.  The facades are to be gorgeous and monumental.  Artists and sculptors are to decorate it, inside and out.  Why shouldn’t there be color on the exterior, gold and painting, like the Fugger palaces in Augsburg, only on a great scale?  The artists don’t see any reason why there should not.  It will make the city brilliant, that sort of thing, in place of our monotonous stone lanes.  And it’s using her wealth for the public benefit-the architects and artists all say that.  Gad, I don’t know but the little woman is beginning to regard herself as a public benefactor.”

“She is that or nothing,” echoed the Major, warmly.

“And do you know,” continued Jack, confidentially, “I think she’s got the right idea.  If I have any luck—­of course I sha’n’t do that—­but if I have any luck, I mean to build a house that’s got some life in it—­color, old boy—­something unique and stunning.”

“So you will,” cried the Major, enthusiastically, and, raising his glass, “Here’s to the house that Jack built!”

It was later than he thought it would be when he went home, but Jack was attended all the way by a vision of a Golden House—­all gold wouldn’t be too good, and he will build it, damme, for Edith and the boy.  The next morning not even the foundations of this structure were visible.  The master of the house came down to a late breakfast, out of sorts with life, almost surly.  Not even Edith’s bright face and fresh toilet and radiant welcome appealed to him.  No one would have thought from her appearance that she had waited for him last night hour after hour, and had at last gone to bed with a heavy heart, and not to sleep-to toss, and listen, and suffer a thousand