op taste? Some of us, alas, can never develop it,
because we can never let go of shams. We must learn to recognize
suitability, simplicity and proportion, and apply our knowledge to our
needs. I grant you we may never fully appreciate the full balance of
proportion, but we can exert our common sense and decide whether a thing
is suitable; we can consult our conscience as to whether an object is
simple, and we can train our eyes to recognize good and bad proportion.
A technical knowledge of architecture is not necessary to know that a
huge stuffed leather chair in a tiny gold and cream room is unsuitable,
is hideously complicated, and is as much out of proportion as the
proverbial bull in the china-shop.

A woman's environment will speak for her life, whether she likes it or
not. How can we believe that a woman of sincerity of purpose will hang
fake "works of art" on her walls, or satisfy herself with imitation
velvets or silks? How can we attribute taste to a woman who permits
paper floors and iron ceilings in her house? We are too afraid of the
restful commonplaces, and yet if we live simple lives, why shouldn't we
be glad our houses are comfortably commonplace? How much better to have
plain furniture that is comfortable, simple chintzes printed from old
blocks, a few good prints, than all the sham things in the world? A
house is a dead-give-away, anyhow, so you should arrange is so that the
person who sees your personality in it will be reassured, not
disconcerted.

Too often, here in America, the most comfortable room in the house is
given up to a sort of bastard collection of gilt chairs and tables,
over-elaborate draperies shutting out both light and air, and huge and
frightful paintings. This style of room, with its museum-like
furnishings, has been dubbed "Marie Antoinette," _why_, no one but the
American decorator can say. Heaven knows poor Marie Antoinette had
enough follies to atone for, but certainly she has never been treated
more shabbily than when they dub these mausoleums "Marie Antoinette
rooms."

I remember taking a clever Englishwoman of much taste to see a woman who
was very proud of her new house. We had seen most of the house when the
hostess, who had evidently reserved what she considered the best for
the last, threw open the doors of a large and gorgeous apartment and
said, "This is my Louis XVI ballroom." My friend, who had been very
patient up to that moment, said very quietly, "What makes yo