Duff’s breakfast was on the table, but he had not much appetite and did not want to get out of his easy-chair by a window at his new house. In front were three or four big maples and the shadows of their broad leaves checkered the gravel walk; a noble cedar spread its branches across the lawn. The wooden house was small, but the architect’s design was good and although the mill-cut decorations were rather numerous, the front was picturesque.
For long Duff’s ambition was to own a house like that, but now he did so, he was not content. Only on Sundays had he leisure to potter about his garden and talk to his wife: he wanted to cut out business and buy a fruit ranch. As a rule, he was at his office about eight o’clock, and after his clerks locked up he was forced to meet people at the hotels
