mattresses than they are surrounded by the
frippery of China and the frivolity of France. If these gentlemen were
fortunate enough to enjoy sufficient confidence in their own taste to
give it a thorough test it is not safe to think of the extreme burden
that would be put on the working capacity of the factories of the
Grand Rapids furniture companies. We might find a few emancipated
souls scouring the town for heavy refectory tables and divans into
which one could sink, reclining or upright, with a perfect sense of
ease, but these would be as rare as Steinway pianos in Coney Island.

For Americans are meek in such matters. They credit themselves with no
taste. They fear comparison. If the very much sought-after Simone
O'Kelly has decorated Mr. B.'s house Mr. M. does not dare to struggle
along with merely his own ideas in furnishing his. He calls in an
expert who begins, rather inauspiciously, by painting the dining-room
salmon pink. The tables and chairs will be made by somebody on Tenth
Street, exact copies of a set to be found in the Musee Carnavalet. The
legs under the table are awkwardly arranged for diners but they look
very well when the table is unclothed. The decorator plans to hang Mr.
M.'s personal bedroom in pale plum colour. Mr. M. rebels at this. "I
detest," he remarks mildly, "all variants of purple." "Very well,"
acquiesces the decorator, "we will make it green." In the end Mr. M.'s
worst premonitions are realized: the walls are resplendent in a
striking shade of magenta. Along the edge of each panel of Chinese
brocade a narrow band of absinthe velvet ribbon gives the necessary
contrast. The furniture is painted in dull ivory with touches of gold
and beryl and the bed cover is peacock blue. Four round cushions of a
similar shade repose on the floor at the foot of the bed. The fat
manufacturer's wife as she enters this triumph of decoration which
might satisfy Louise de la Valliere or please Doris Keane, is an
anachronistic figure and she is aware of it. She prefers, on the
whole, the brass bedsteads of the summer hotels. Mr. M. himself feels
ridiculous. He never enters the room without a groan and a remark on
the order of "Good God, what a colour!" His personal taste finds its
supreme enjoyment in the Circassian walnut panelling, desk, and tables
of the directors' room in the Millionaire's Trust and Savings Bank.
"Rich and tasteful": how many times he has used this phrase to express
his approval! In the m