"And since the Ralestone
family have definitely gone off the gold or any other monetary standard,
it's tourist rests or the poorhouse for us."
"Probably the poorhouse." Rupert sounded resigned. "Now upstairs with
you and get out some bedding. LeFleur said in his letter that the place
was all ready for occupancy. And he stocked up with canned stuff."
"I know--beans! Just too, too divine. Well, let's know the worst." Ricky
started up the stairs. "I suppose there are electric lights?"
"Got to throw the main switch first, and I haven't time to do that now.
Here, Val." Rupert tossed him his tiny pocket torch as he turned to go.
The door closed behind him and Ricky looked over her shoulder.
"This--this is rather a darkish place, isn't it?"
"Not so bad." Val considered the hall below, which seemed suddenly
peopled by an overabundance of oddly shaped shadows.
"No," her voice grew stronger, "not so bad. We're together anyway, Val.
Last year I thought I'd die, shut up in that awful school, and then
coming home to hear--"
"About me making my first and last flight. Yes, not exactly a rest cure
for any of us, was it? But it's all over now. The Ralestones may be down
but they're not out, yet, in spite of Mosile Oil and those coal-mines.
D'you know, we might use some of that nice gilt-edged stock for
wall-paper. There's enough to cover a closet at least. Here we are,
Rupert from beating about the globe trying to be a newspaper man, you
straight from N'York's finest finishing-school, and me--well, out of the
plainest hospital bed I ever saw.
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