Chapter Sixteen


However, on Sunday she forgot to ask him. The circumstances were
so unexpectedly pleasant as to banish from her head any pre-
arranged plan of procedure. It was a glowing June day, soft,
perfumed, and breezy. The Bradleys went to Butler's Hill, which
was "our station," as Nancy said, and there the agent met them,
with a car. He drove them himself the short mile from the railroad
to Marlborough Gardens.

"Isn't it one of those frightfully smart developments?" Nancy
asked, smiling uneasily.

"It's considered the finest home development on Long Island," the
agent admitted readily, "The place I'm going to show you--I'm
going to show you two or three--but the special place I want to
show you, was built for a HOME. There isn't a finer building
anywhere. Lansing, the man who built it, was a splendid fellow,
with a lovely wife--lovely woman. But her mother lives in
California, and she got to worrying--"

"Mr. Bradley told me," Nancy said sympathetically.

"Homes, and home-makers," pursued the agent, "That's what we need.
The people we have here are all quiet, home-loving folks, we don't