and the old house is a fairy dream come true.

Its marble steps are softly yellowed with age, an exquisitely wrought
iron balcony stretches across the front above the high ceilinged
basement and great carved walnut doors open into a wide vestibule with
a marble floor exactly like a bit of a gigantic chessboard. The
transformation had so astounded me that I was almost afraid to touch
the neatly polished beaten silver bell for fear the whole house would
vanish.

"Coom in!" cried a Scotchy voice from the basement. So I stepped
across the tessellated floor of the hall into the broad drawing-room
and stared out through the long French doors of the glass room at the
green smudge of Battery Park beyond the river. There wasn't a soul in
sight in any of the rooms and yet I felt as if some one was there.
Perhaps it was just that I was awed by the disconcerting loveliness of
the portrait of the brunette lady that hung in a tarnished oval frame
above the drawing-room mantel. I looked at her and waited. Presently I
coughed apologetically.

"Could I please find out if a--er--Miss Day lives here? Or--if anybody
here knows her?"

The Scotchy voice lifted itself grudgingly above the vigorous swish of
a scrubbing brush.

"I dinna think ony one's home but th' Sculptor Girl--she's on th' top
floor an' it's not I that knows whether she's in a speaking humor, but
you're weelcoom to try her--"