“Seven hundred and fifty pounds a year is hardly penury,” Marion had pointed out. “You could comfortably keep a family, servants, and even a small carriage for that in England.”

“When you convert it into dollars, it is over five thousand, yet compared to almost everyone we have been socialising with, I am a relative pauper. I have never before had to bear the expense of my own home. It is shocking how ignorant I am of such things. As indeed Mr. McAllister is of my financial status. ‘One may live fashionably and entertain in modest style for a mere fifteen to twenty thousand a year,’” Margaret mimicked.

“What I’d like to know is how much commission he earns from his various recommendations,” Marion said disdainfully. “He has a friend with a conveniently empty town house, or he can put in a word at the Stevens House and obtain one of the better apartments for us. Ha! I’m sure he can, and line his pockets into the bargain.”

“I could just about afford an apartment in the Stevens House, though.”

“If all you wanted to do was stay in and treat a ride on the steam elevator as entertainment. No, we must look farther downtown. I am sure the rental will decrease in tandem with the street numbers.”

Marion had been proved correct, but they had viewed several properties and were beginning to lose heart when the house on Washington Square became available, on a crisp, cold Monday in the middle of March.

“According to our guide-book,” Margaret said, “this park was once a burial ground known as potter’s field.”

“Presumably the bodies have been relocated. Although they certainly would make for quiet neighbours,” Marion said, as they strolled through the pleasant green space bounded with low iron railings, with a fountain and some fine trees just coming into bud.

They were to view the middle of a row of town houses bordering the northern side. Built of red brick, the elegant façades were fronted by white marble stairs leading up to an entrance with Ionic columns. “This reminds me of Merrion Square in Dublin,” Margaret said as they approached it. “I think it might be the one.”

“If you don’t mind being surrounded by boarding-houses. This square is certainly not a fashionable address.”

“Not yet. Wait until we move in, we’ll set a new fashion,” Margaret retorted, smiling at the real estate agent, who was waiting for them on the stoop.

“Two bedrooms, two parlours, and a bathroom for eighteen hundred dollars per annum,” Marion said an hour later, having persuaded the agent that he had waxed lyrical enough and should leave them alone to discuss the matter. “We will need help to run the household.”