The Professor's House
it was the one place in the house where he could get
isolation, insulation from the engaging drama of
domestic life. No one was tramping over him, and
only a vague sense, generally pleasant, of what went
on below came up the narrow stairway. There
were certainly no other advantages. The furnace
heat did not reach the third floor. There was no
way to warm the sewing-room, except by a rusty,
round gas stove with no flue—a stove which con-
med gas imperfectly and contaminated the air.
To remedy this, the window must be left open—otherwise, with the ceiling so low, the air would
speedily become unfit to breathe. If the stove were turned down, and the window left open a little way, a sudden gust of wind would blow the wretched thing out altogether, and a deeply absorbed man might be asphyxiated before he knew it. The Professor had found that the best method, in winter, was to turn the gas on full and keep the' window
wide on the hook, even if he had to put on a leather
jacket over his working-coat. By that arrangement
he had somehow managed to get air enough to
work by.
He wondered now why he had never looked about for a better stove, a newer model; or why he had not at least painted this one, flaky with rust. But he had been able to get on only by neglecting negative comforts. He was by no means an ascetic. He knew that he was terribly selfish about personal
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