rs what is
becoming to her own type, and she puts in her house only such articles as
are becoming to it.

That a quaint old-fashioned house should be filled with quaint
old-fashioned pieces of furniture, in size proportionate to the size of
the rooms, and that rush-bottomed chairs and rag-carpets have no place in
a marble hall, need not be pointed out. But to an amazing number of
persons, proportion seems to mean nothing at all. They will put a huge
piece of furniture in a tiny room so that the effect is one of painful
indigestion; or they will crowd things all into one corner--so that it
seems about to capsize; or they will spoil a really good room by the
addition of senseless and inappropriately cluttering objects, in the
belief that because they are valuable they must be beautiful, regardless
of suitability. Sometimes a room is marred by "treasures" clung to for
reasons of sentiment.

=THE BLINDNESS OF SENTIMENT=

It is almost impossible for any of us to judge accurately of things which
we have throughout a lifetime been accustomed to. A chair that was
grandmother's, a painting father bought, the silver that has always been
on the dining table--are all so part of ourselves that we are
sentiment-blind to their defects.

For instance, the portrait of a Colonial officer, among others, has always
hung in Mrs. Oldname's dining-room. One day an art critic, whose knowledge
was better than his manners, blurted out, "Will you please tell me why you
have that dreadful thing in this otherwise perfect room?" Mrs. Oldname,
somewhat taken back, answered rather wonderingly: "Is it
dreadful?--Really? I have a feeling of affection for him and his dog!"

The critic was merciless. "If you call a cotton-flannel effigy, a dog! And
as for the figure, it is equally false and lifeless! It is amazing how
any one with your taste can bear looking at it!" In spite of his rudeness,
Mrs. Oldname saw that what he said was quite true, but not until the fact
had been pointed out to her. Gradually she grew to dislike the poor
officer so much that he was finally relegated to the attic. In the same
way most of us have belongings that have "always been there" or perhaps
"treasures" that we love for some association, which are probably as bad
as can be, to which habit has blinded us, though we would not have to be
told of their hideousness were they seen by us in the house of another.

It is not to be expected that all people can throw away every