CHAPTER III.
"It's a box of a place, though, isn't it," declared Mr.Stephen Warren, contemptuously glancing about the library of the apartment.

"A box, by George! I think it's a blooming shame that we have to put up with it, Sis." Mr.Warren sprawled in the most comfortable chair in the room, was looking out through the window, across the wind-swept width of Central Park West, over the knolls and valleys of the Park itself, now bare of foliage and sprinkled with patches of snow.

There was a discontented look on his face, and his hands were jammed deep in his trousers pockets.
His sister, Caroline, sat opposite to him, also looking out at the December landscape.

She, too, was discontented and unhappy, though she tried not to show it.
"Why don't you say something," snapped Stephen, after a moment of silence.

"_Isn't_ it a box of a place?
Now come." "Yes," replied the young lady, without looking at her brother.