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Page 17
"Pray don't run any risks. I move we now adjourn."
"Yes; but first let me ask one question," said Jill. "Would not the
difference of cost between a house built in the ordinary combustible
style and the same made fire-proof, or even 'slow-burning,' pay the
cost of insurance at the usual rates many times over and leave a large
margin besides?"
"Undoubtedly it would."
"Then, as an investment, what object is there in attempting to make
buildings fireproof or even approximately so?"
"Excuse me. I thought you were going to ask only one question."
CHAPTER V.
WHEN THE FLOODS BEAT AND THE RAINS DESCEND.
After the architect had retired to his room it occurred to him that he
might have answered Jill's conundrum as to the profit of building
fire-proof houses by reminding her that pecuniary loss is not the sole
objection to being burned out of house and home whenever the fire fiend
happens to crave a flaming sacrifice, in the daytime or in the night,
in summer or in midwinter, in sickness or in health; that not only
heir-looms, but hearthstones and door posts, endeared by long
associations, have a value beyond the power of insurance companies to
restore, and that protection against fire means also security against
many other ills to which the dwellers in houses are liable, not to
refer to the larger fact that there is no real wealth without
permanence, while the destruction of anything useful in the world,
wherever the loss may seem to fall, impoverishes the whole. Having
settled this point to his own satisfaction, he sought his pillow in a
comfortable frame of mind. Comfortable, but not wholly at rest, for no
sooner did he close his eyes than the "fever of futile protest"
asserted itself in turbulent visions of paper, paint and plastering.
Dados danced around in carnival dress; wall decorations went waltzing
up and down, changing in shape, size and color like the figures in a
kaleidoscope; Chinese pagodas on painted paper dissolved into brazen
sconces, and candelabra sat where no light would ever shine; glazed
plaques turned into Panama hats and cotton umbrellas, the classic
figures in the frieze began to chase the peacocks furiously across the
ceilings, the storks hopped wildly around on their one available leg,
draperies of every conceivable hue and texture, from spider webs to
sole leather, shaking the dust from their folds, slipped uneasily about
on their glittering rings, and showers of Japanese fans floated down
like falling apple blossoms in the month of May. He seemed to see the
Old Curiosity Shop, the uncanny room of Mr. Venus, a dozen foreign
departments of the Centennial, ancient garrets and modern household art
stores, all tumbled together in hopeless confusion, and over all an
emerald, golden halo that grew more and more concentrated till it burst
into gloom as one gigantic sunflower, which, suddenly changing into the
full moon just rising above the top of a neighboring roof, put an end
to his chaotic dreams.
Not willing to be moonstruck, even on the back of his head, he arose
and went to the window to draw the curtain. There was a sort of
curtainette at the top, opaque and immovable, serving simply to reduce
the height of the window. At the sides there were gauzy draperies, too
fancifully arranged to be rashly moved and too thin to serve the
purpose of a curtain even against moonlight. He tried to close the
inside shutters, but they clung to their boxes, refusing to stir
without an order from the carpenter. At the risk of catching a cold or
a fall, he opened the window and endeavored to bring the outside
blinds together. One fold hung fast to the wall, the other he contrived
to unloose, but the hook to hold it closed was wanting, and when he
tried to fasten it open again the catch refused to catch, so he was
compelled to shut the window and leave the swinging blind at the mercy
of the wind. He then improvised a screen from a high-backed chair and
an extra blanket, and again betook himself to bed. Stepping on a tack
that had been left over when the floor matting was laid provoked
certain exclamations calculated to exorcise the demon--or should I say
alarm the angel?--of decorative art, and he was soon wrapped in the
slumber of the just, undisturbed by esthetic visions.
[Illustration: WILL'S MASTERPIECE.]
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