"Yours?" Marjorie looked surprised. "All your own?"
"Yes," said the boy, smiling.
"And do you live alone?"
"Oh, no," said the boy; "I have ever and ever so many companions, beautiful ones."
Marjorie leaned back in the seat and gazed around. "It is so lovely and quiet here," she said. "I noticed some places down the street, where there was noise and confusion, and the gardens were littered and the windows dirty. But of course those were the places where the people had built other houses in their yards," she added.
"Yes," said the boy, "that is because they don't choose their companions. I choose all of mine. I don't let any go in but those whom I really want. There are ever so many houses that are as nice, or nicer, than mine, though. Lots of folks have torn down the things that they had built up in front of their mansions. I've torn down ever so much, myself—but there are still some lean-tos and chicken-coops in the back yard, that I'm trying to get rid of," he confessed, shaking his head.
"Why don't you go and tear them down now?" asked Marjorie.
