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fashioned mortal sin.
    It was still overwhelming, more so as it loomed larger and its details became more distinct – carved modillions and mul-lioned windows and the shape of the columns in the upper porch. But the roof-tiles rippled, and the shingles, once white, were dirty gray and broken, with ancient rust stains; some of the windows had been patched with cardboard; and the balusters running up the central steps were tilting, many of them, or missing (one lay buried in the scrawny shrubbery beside the steps). And for every tree that billowed so impressively from a distance, there were two that were bony and long dead.
    “God, what a waste!” Marian said as Ben drove past a five-car garage with an upper storey. There was a huge old Packard parked in front of one of the garages whose doors hung open very loosely. The car seemed packed tight with boxes and lampshades and bits of furniture; a wooden headboard was tied to the top, and the trunk was open.
    “What time were they expecting us?” Ben asked.
    “Eleven.”
    “We’ve got half an hour.”
    “They won’t mind.”
    He stopped the car in front of the house; the drive was paved very thinly with gravel. When they got out the house stretched and towered above them, and on the other side the wide field rolled back to the woods which were a solid wall of green.
    The steps squeaked, all of them; sixteen, according to David who bounced on one until Marian grabbed him and whispered, “David!” She stopped Ben near the top. “I’m nervous,” she said.
    “I don’t see why,” he replied. He climbed ahead, up to the portico. The columns were high and round and peeling; the porch broad and shaded.
    Almost as soon as Ben knocked, the door was pulled open by a short old man, pink, round and panting. He was wearing a peaked cap, sweat stained, ballooning trousers and a tank-top undershirt; a small nipple peered out beside the worn strap.
    “We’re the Rolfes,” Ben said; “we’ve come about the summer place.” Marian crossed the porch; she was smiling tightly and still holding on to David.
    “I know, I know,” the man said; he was having trouble catching his breath. “Been expectin’ you. I’m Walker. The handyman.” He chuckled as though it were some private joke. “Come on in.”
    He opened the door wider; Ben motioned Marian and David in first.
    “You folks can wait in the parlor while I go find their nibses,” Walker said. When he turned there was a large and dirty dustcloth trailing from his back pocket.
    David pulled loose as Marian stood motionless in the entrance hall. The chandelier caught her eye first: a great cluster of crystal – Waterford, no doubt – hung high above the bare wooden floor. The droplets were cloudy and the floor dull and scraped; there was a large oriental rug rolled up against one wall. Still, the hall was impressive – almost as large as their whole apartment. A magnificent staircase, carved mahogany, curved up to the second floor; near the base and following the curve up and out of sight was a metal band, like a track.
    “Marian?” Ben was waiting outside the double doors Walker had just opened.
    “Yes, coming.” She tried to absorb the details: double doors on either side of the hall which narrowed to a passageway beside the staircase; rooms beyond – dining room, kitchen, library, the greenhouse? She had never been in a house anything like this; the layout she visualized was strictly Hollywood “grand.” But gone, or going, to seed. And again, what a pity!
    What Walker referred to as “the parlor” was even more impressive – an enormous, sun-filled room, rounded at one end and cut with the French doors she had seen as they approached the house. An Aubusson was in the middle of the room, off-white, with pale rose and blue flowers; the walls were all antique boiseries, white and gold; and over the scrolled mantel of the fireplace was a Chippendale mirror that made her gasp. And, God! why was the rug so worn,