And next September, if it's blazing hot, won't be exactly the
time for Rose to go ramping around trying to buy furniture for a whole
establishment--because you haven't a stick yourselves, of course--and
getting settled in, hiring servants, getting the thing going. You can't
be sure you'll have till the first of October. Things like that don't
always happen exactly as they are expected to. But suppose you have good
luck and manage it. Then where are you? Out in the woods somewhere at
the beginning of winter, just when you ought to be settled comfortably
somewhere in town.
"Oh, I know it's all very poetic, sitting in front of a roaring fire of
logs, while the wind bangs the shutters, and that sort of thing, Rose
singing to the baby and all. But you're not an Arcadian one bit. Neither
is she, really, and you'll simply perish out there, both of you, and be
back in town before the holidays.
"Rose oughtn't to be in town this summer. But she'll have to be to put
this through. She ought to be down at York Harbor, or one of those Cape
Cod places, instead of in this horrible smoky hole.
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