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Updated: May 5, 2025
You got an eye for a tasty bit of colorin'. Eight rooms, bath, and kitchen. By the week in case we don't suit each other. Very choice and classy for a young married couple. Eight dollars, in advance. Prices for R. Noovo dwellings has riz." "We're not married," said the young man. "Hey? Whaddye mean, not married?" demanded that highly respectable institution, the Mordaunt Estate, severely.
"That," said the Mordaunt Estate, wiping his painty hands on his knees with brilliant results, as he turned a fat and smiling face to them, "is after the R. Noovo style. I dunno who R. Noovo was, but he's a bear for color. Are you artists?" "We're house-hunters," explained the young man. "As for tenants," said the Mordaunt Estate, "I take 'em or leave 'em as I like 'em or don't. I like you folks.
I guess," pursued the Mordaunt Estate, stricken with gloom over the difficulty of finding the Perfect Tenant in an imperfect world, "I'll have to notice her to quit." "No; don't do that!" cried the young man. "Here! I'll repaint the whole wall for you free of charge." "What do you know about R. Noovo art? Besides, paints cost money." "I'll furnish the paint, too," offered the reckless youth.
It was a long month, though, before the butterfly fluttered back. More radiant than ever she looked, glowing softly in the brave November sun, as she approached my bench. But there was something indefinably wistful about her. She said that she had come to satisfy her awakened appetite for the high art of R. Noovo, as she faced the unaltered and violent frontage of Number 37. "Empty," said I.
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