The table-cloth had
ball-fringe and so had the window curtains, and the carpet was a bed of
roses. There were little cupboards on either side of the fireplace, and
in the recesses, ill-made shelves packed with books, and enriched with
pinked American cloth. There was a dictionary lying face downward on
the table, and the open bureau was littered with foolscap paper and
the evidences of recently abandoned toil. My eye caught "The Ponderevo
Patent Flat, a Machine you can Live in," written in large firm letters.
My uncle opened a little door like a cupboard door in the corner of this
room, and revealed the narrowest twist of staircase I had ever set
eyes upon. "Susan!" he bawled again. "Wantje. Some one to see you.
Surprisin'."
There came an inaudible reply, and a sudden loud bump over our heads
as of some article of domestic utility pettishly flung aside, then
the cautious steps of someone descending the twist, and then my aunt
appeared in the doorway with her hand upon the jamb.
"It's Aunt Ponderevo," cried my uncle. "George's wife--and she's brought
over her son!" His eye roamed about the room.
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