It was just after dinner that the surprise was sprung on me. Mr.
Harbison came around to me gravely, and asked me if I felt able to go
up on the roof. On the roof, after last night! I had to gather myself
together; luckily, the others were pushing back their chairs, showing
Flannigan the liqueur glasses to take up, and lighting cigars.
"I do not care to go," I said icily.
"The others are coming," he persisted, "and I--I could give you an arm
up the stairs."
"I believe you are good at that," I said, looking at him steadily. "Max,
will you help me to the roof?"
Mr. Harbison really turned rather white. Then he bowed ceremoniously and
left me.
Max got me a wrap, and every one except Mr. Harbison and Bella, who was
taking a mass of indigestables to Aunt Selina, went to the roof.
"Where is Tom?" Anne asked, as we reached the foot of the stairs. "Gone
ahead to fix things," was the answer. But he was not there. At the top
of the last flight I stopped, dumb with amazement; the roof had been
transformed, enchanted. It was a fairy-land of lights and foliage and
colors. I had to stop and rub my eyes. From the bleakness of a tin roof
in February to the brightness and greenery of a July roof garden!
"You were the immediate inspiration, Kit," Dallas said. "Harbison
thought your headache might come from lack of exercise and fresh air,
and he has worked us like nailers all day. I've a blister on my right
palm, and Harbison got shocked while he was wiring the place, and
nearly fell over the parapet. We bought out two full-sized florists by
telephone."
It was the most amazing transformation. At each corner a pole had been
erected, and wires crossed the roof diagonally, hung with red and amber
bulbs. Around the chimneys had been massed evergreen trees in tubs,
hiding their brick-and-mortar ugliness, and among the trees tiny lights
were strung. Along the parapet were rows of geometrical boxwood plants
in bright red crocks, and the flaps of a crimson and white tent had
been thrown open, showing lights within, and rugs, wicker chairs, and
cushions.
Max raised a glass of benedictine and posed for a moment,
melodramatically.
"To the Wilson roof garden!" he said. "To Kit, who inspired; to the
creators, who perspired; and to Takahiro--may he not have expired."
Every one was very gay; I think the knowledge that tomorrow Aunt Selina
might be with them urged them to make the most of this last night of
freedom. I tried to be jolly, and succeeded in being feverish. Mr.
Harbison did not come up to enjoy what he had wrought. Jim brought up
his guitar and sang love songs in a beautiful tenor, looking at Bella
all the time. And Bella sat in a steamer chair, with a rug over her and
a spangled veil on her head, looking at the boats on the river--about as
soft and as chastened as an an acetylene headlight.