"Isn't it perfectly magnificent!" cried a pretty girl.
"I wouldn't have missed it on any account. Thank you so much,
Mr. Symington, for bringing us out!"
"Ah, I thought you'd like it," said this Mr. Symington,
who must have been the host; "and you can enjoy it without
the least compunction, Miss Delano, for I happen to know
that the house belongs to a man who could afford to burn
one up for you once a year."
"Oh, do you think he would, if I came again?"
"I haven't the least doubt of it. We don't do things
by halves in Boston."
"He ought to have had a coat of his noncombustible paint
on it," said another gentleman of the party.
Penelope pulled her father away toward the first carriage
she could reach of a number that had driven up.
"Here, father! get into this."
"No, no; I couldn't ride," he answered heavily, and he walked
home in silence. He greeted his wife with, "Well, Persis,
our house is gone! And I guess I set it on fire myself;"
and while he rummaged among the papers in his desk,
still with his coat and hat on, his wife got the facts
as she could from Penelope. She did not reproach him.
Here was a case in which his self-reproach must be sufficiently
sharp without any edge from her. Besides, her mind was
full of a terrible thought.
"O Silas," she faltered, "they'll think you set it
on fire to get the insurance!"
Lapham was staring at a paper which he held in his hand.
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