The new paint on the square detached houses
shone afar off in the transparent air: they had, on top, little cupolas
and belvederes, in front a pillared piazza, made bare by the indoor life
of winter, on either side a bow-window or two, and everywhere an
embellishment of scallops, brackets, cornices, wooden flourishes. They
stood, for the most part, on small eminences, lifted above the
impertinence of hedge or paling, well up before the world, with all the
good conscience which in many cases came, as Ransom saw (and he had
noticed the same ornament when he traversed with Olive the quarter of
Boston inhabited by Miss Birdseye), from a silvered number, affixed to
the glass above the door, in figures huge enough to be read by the
people who, in the periodic horse-cars, travelled along the middle of
the avenue. It was to these glittering badges that many of the houses on
either side owed their principal identity. One of the horse-cars now
advanced in the straight, spacious distance; it was almost the only
object that animated the prospect, which, in its large cleanness, its
implication of strict business-habits on the part of all the people who
were not there, Ransom thought very impressive. As he went on with
Verena he asked her about the Women's Convention, the year before;
whether it had accomplished much work and she had enjoyed it.
"What do you care about the work it accomplished?" said the girl. "You
don't take any interest in that.
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