n. I laughed at almost everything
that she and Sally said, and I said some rather funny things myself.
Still, I'm not sure that as a regular thing, I wouldn't rather have
tea.

We sat resting for some time, though I wasn't tired at all now. I could
have run a mile, but suddenly I felt a little sleepy, and I was glad
when Mrs. Ess Kay proposed to go to our rooms. Leaving the fountain
court, we came into a hall, hung with tapestry; and from it a wide
stairway led us up to a gallery, lighted from the top, which runs all
round the house, with the doors of the bedrooms opening off from it.

Mine is so gorgeous that I haven't known one thoroughly comfy moment in
it, since I came, except at night when I'm asleep.

One would think, as Battlemead is ranked among the finest old Tudor
places in England, and people come on Thursdays and give shillings to
see it (a very good thing for us, though it's extremely inconvenient,
as it pays for all the gardens and all the servants' wages) that it
would be grander than quite a new house, in a country like America. But
Battlemead, in its palmiest days, must have been _shabby_ beside Mrs.
Ess Kay's "home" in New York.

Our grandest bedroom,--the one where Queen Elizabeth slept--is quite a
dull old hole compared to Mrs. Ess Kay's splendid room. Mine, at home,
has all the furniture covered with faded chintz, and the curtains are
made of plain white dimity. But I love the deep window seats where I
can curl up among cushions, with a cataract of roses veiling the
picture of the terrace with its ivy-covered stone balustrade, the
sun-dial, the two white peacocks, and far away, the park with a blue
mist among the trees. And I haven't learned yet to love my beautiful
room at Mrs. Ess Kay's, though I admire it immensely--admire to the
verge of awe.

It's pink and white and silver. The carpet is pink, and feels like
moss, as you step. The wall is covered with pink and silver brocade,
except where there are panels with Watteau-like pictures. The curtains
are foamy lace, with the pink and silver brocade falling over them. The
furniture looks as if it were made of ivory; there's a mirror in three
parts, reaching from the floor half way to the ceiling, so that you see
yourself in front, and two profiles, like astral bodies, things which
I've always wanted to cultivate, as they would be so nice for trying on
dresses, or making calls on dull people. On the dressing-table is
another mirror, an oval one,