LXV
the removal to redding
THERE followed another winter during which I was much with Mark Twain, though a part of it he spent with Mr. Rogers in Bermuda, that pretty island resort which both men loved. Then came spring again, and June, and with it Mark Twain's removal to his newly built home, "Stormfield," at Redding, Connecticut.
The house had been under construction for a year. He had never seen it—never even seen the land I had bought for him. He even preferred not to look at any plans or ideas for decoration.
"When the house is finished and furnished, and the cat is purring on the hearth, it will be time enough for me to see it," he had said more than once.
He had only specified that the rooms should be large and that the billiard-room should be red. His billiard-rooms thus far had been of that color, and their memory was associated in his mind with enjoyment and comfort. He detested details of preparation, and then, too, he looked forward to the dramatic surprise of walking into a home that had been conjured into existence as with a word.
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