E. L. White

“ Douglas Burns had a flat among the chimney-pots, with an armchair, a flying-pan, and a varied assortment of pipes. Unlike George Webb, he offered no surface attractions, but presented a problem in raining to discover what went to his making.
A shortish, square-built man, with a rough-hewn face and a quiet voice, yet a fairy, for all that—one of the scientific genus who unite oceans and remove mountains. In other words, an engineer.
When Leslie had inherited her legacy, she had made no difference in her life. ”

“ As Beryl salvaged the coffee, her smile was acid as citron.
"I can see you, Leslie, the stock-coloured supplement of the Christmas number. You are the girl with the curls, in the full evening-dress of serviceable tulle, who's just finished her stunt of wreathing the church pillars with holly.... My grief! That broken-nosed highwayman has a look of Douglas Burns. By the way, he's just blown in." ”

“ George's laugh was half shamed, half cynical. "Burns doesn't seem a bad sort. A bit keen on him yourself, aren't you?"
"Am I?" Beryl's voice was careless. "He's—rather a lamb. We ought to be starting. Leslie! Leslie!" ”

“ That's inside. Outside is a white world, with the light streaming from the church window, where they are practising the carols. 'Peace on earth'——"
Something more than a relaxed larynx choked Leslie's voice.
Peace on earth? With Caruso on the gramophone at No. 11, a jazz on the pianola at No. 13, and at No. 15 a ladies' tea-party, with a little quiet conversation with ladies just across the way in Mars; a child crying at No. 12, a Pom yapping for the moon at No. 14, and at No. 16 a sick man making the best of it by trying to die.
Beryl, who was sound-proof, began to laugh. ”

“ There would be paragraphs in the newspapers—Beryl being interviewed, in her best frock, and with a stationary drop on her lashes. Inquiry agents would circulate those descriptions which fit every blonde woman who wears the orthodox clothes. No one would look in the cupboard. It held only Leslie's gowns—last summer's drift of stranded chiffon and lace. ”

“ There's plenty of competition for an heiress. I've had my work cut out keeping others off the grass."
Leslie shrank back into the unresponsive arms of the summer dressing-gown she had just located. In view of the extreme awkwardness of the situation, she had to remain an unwilling audience. She felt grateful that the cupboard door was closed, so that it was outlined by only a mere crack of light.
Beryl's last words had evidently given George food for reflection. He leaned suddenly against the cupboard and took out his pipe.
"Does the strong silent gorilla blow in often?"
"Burns? Not now. ”

“ Leslie believed that in the beginning an honest architect built an honest house, suitable to the good old Victorian days when families were twelve to a score of years and Providence looked after the future. ”

“ Be honest, woman! You lived in the West. Wasn't it a warm wind, and muddy lanes, and charcoal in the turkey to keep it from going?"
"Mostly," admitted Leslie. "But once in a while we did have old-fashioned weather, with skating and frost flowers on your window. I keep thinking of that. Oh, dear heart! I do want it all back again! ... Give me those flasks, and I'll heat up the coffee."
She felt that she must escape, if only for a few minutes, from those others. In half an hour the three would be penned in a railway carriage, on their way to the South Coast hydro. ”

“ That mischievous urchin, the architect's son, spoiled the original plan by ruling small squares all over it. When he achieved manhood, he chanced upon his childish drawing and found therein the essentials of good modern architecture. ”