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They went for coffee to a queer little burrow decorated with improving sentiments from the immortal Lewis Carroll which, Barbran told the Bonnie Lassie, was making its blue-smocked, bobbed-haired, attractive and shrewd little proprietress quite rich.
It's worth a page story. Of course I'll want some photographs of the mural paintings. They're almost painfully beautiful.... What's wrong with our young friend; is he sick?" he added, looking with astonishment at Phil Stacey who was exhibiting sub-nauseous symptoms. "He painted 'em," explained Cyrus, grinning. "And he's sorry," supplemented Barbran. "Yes; I wouldn't wonder.
Barbran hinted that she was thinking of improving on the Mole's Hole idea if she could find a suitable location, not so much for the money, of course her tone implied a lordly indifference to such considerations as for the fun of the thing. The Bonnie Lassie was amused but not impressed.
Barbran hesitated, capitulated, came to the Bonnie Lassie's house, moused about Our Square in a rapt manner and stayed. She was a small person with shy, soft eyes. "The Bonnie Lassie sent you," said I. She nodded. "You've come here to live Heaven only knows why but we're glad to see you.
"I don't care for anything except Dominie, who told you her father was a millionaire?" "It's well known," I said vaguely. "He's a cattle king or an emperor of sheep or the sultan of the piggery or something. A good thing for Barbran, too, if she expects to keep her cellar going. The kind of people who read Har our unmentionable author, don't frequent Bohemian coffee cellars.
"Now the place is ruined," mourned Barbran. "Wait and see," advised the wiser Cyrus. Great is the power of publicity. The Wrightery was swamped with custom on the Monday evening following publication, and for the rest of that week and the succeeding week.
Barbran came to us from the immeasurable distances; to wit, Washington Square. Let me confess at once that we are a bit supercilious in our attitude toward the sister Square far to our West, across the Alps of Broadway.
"Do you remember a fat old grandpa who was here last month and came back to ask about the decorations?" "Yes." "He's built him a new house he calls it a mansion and he wants me to paint the music-room. He likes" Phil gulped a little "my style of art." "Isn't that great!" said Barbran in the voice of one giving three cheers for a funeral. "How does he want his music-room decorated?"
They're an insult to Our Square. Of all subjects in the world, Harvey Wheelwright! Why, Barbran? Why? Why? Why?" "Business," said Barbran. "Explain, please," said I. "I got the idea from a friend of mine in Washington Square. She got up a little cellar café built around Alice. Alice in Wonderland, you know, and the Looking Glass.
"I don't want you not to come back," said Barbran, in a queer, frightened voice. She put out her hand to him and hastily withdrew it. He said desperately: "What's the use? I can't sit here forever looking at you and and dreaming of of impossible things, and eating my heart out with my nose painted green." "The poor nose!" murmured Barbran.
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