Littleton enjoyed an agreeable quarter of an hour of exaltation.  He was pleased at the prospect of building a house of this description, and the hope of being able to give free scope to his architectural bent without molestation made that prospect roseate.  He could desire no better opportunity for expressing his ideas and proving his capacity.  It was an ideal chance, and his soul thrilled as he called up the shadowy fabric of scheme after scheme to fill the trial canvas of his fantasy.  Nor did he fail to award due credit to Selma for her share in the transaction; not to the extent, perhaps, of confessing incapacity on his own part, but by testifying lovingly to her cleverness.  She was in too good humor at her success to insist on his humiliation in set terms.  The two points in which she was most vitally interested—­the advantage of her own interference and the consequent prompt extension of her husband’s field of usefulness—­had been triumphantly proved, and there was no need that the third—­Wilbur’s lack of capacity to battle and discriminate for himself—­should be emphasized.  Selma knew what she thought in her own mind, and she entertained the hope that this lesson might be a lamp to his feet for future illumination.  She was even generous enough to exclaim, placing her hands on his shoulders and looking into his face with complacent fervor: 

“You might have accomplished it just as well yourself, Wilbur.”

Littleton shook his head and smiled.  “It was a case of witchery and fascination.  He probably divined how eager you were to help me, and he was glad to yield to the agreeable spell of your wifely devotion.”

“Oh, no,” said Selma.  “I am sure he never guessed for one moment of what I was thinking.  Of course, I did try to make him like me, but that was only sensible.  To make people like one is the way to get business, I believe.”

Littleton’s quarter of an hour of exaltation was rudely checked by a note from Mrs. Parsons, requesting an interview in regard to the plans.  When he presented himself he found her and her daughter imbued with definite ideas on the subject of architects and architecture.  In the eyes of Mrs. Parsons the architect of her projected house was nothing but a young man in the employ of her husband, who was to guide them as to measurements, carpentry, party-walls and plumbing, but was otherwise to do her bidding for a pecuniary consideration, on the same general basis as the waiter at the hotel or the theatre ticket-agent.  As to architecture, she expected him to draw plans just as she expected dealers in carpets or wall-papers to show her patterns in easy succession.  “I don’t care for that; take it away.”  “That is rather pretty, but let me see something else.”  What she said to Littleton was, “We haven’t quite decided yet what we want, but, if you’ll bring some plans the next time you call, we’ll let you know which we like best.  There’s a house in Vienna I saw once, which I