work for a
living, but simply Feminine Conceit.

Of course Aubrey and I made some mistakes in spite of all our
precautions, for, happily for me, the Angel can be led away by
enthusiasm, and is not so faultlessly perfect as to be impossible to
get on with. I revel in his weaknesses, they are so human and
companionable, and give me such a feeling of satisfaction when summing
up my own faults. We got so much fun out of shopping for the house
that we dragged out the process to make the delight of it as lingering
as possible. I had planned it all out.

My own room was to be pink. Big pink roses splashed all over the
cretonne counterpane and valance of the bed. Plain pink wall-paper
upon which to hang pictures all in black frames. Small pink roses
tumbling on the ceiling and looking as if every moment they would
scatter their curling petals on the pink rugs on the floor. The dark
furniture against the pink walls toned down the rose colour, which
returned the compliment to the furniture by bringing out the carving on
bold relief.

The guest-room, on the contrary, was to be pale blue with white
furniture. Nothing but gold-framed pictures on the walls and a blue
rug on the floor. The chairs were to be upholstered in blue for this
room, and in pink for mine. Muslin curtains with full deep ruffles,
picked out respectively with pink and blue, would flutter at the sunny
windows, and though simplicity itself, nothing ever struck me as any
more attractive, for it was all mine--my first house--my first
housekeeping! When this dream really came true, I walked around in
such a dazed condition of delight that I was black and blue from
knocking myself into things I didn't see. But even as I did not see
the obstructions, I did not feel the pain of my bruises, for they were
all got from my furniture on corners of _my_ house, and thus were
sacred.

As I gazed on the delicate beauty of my pretty little guest-chamber I
fell to wondering who would be its first occupant. Would it be a man
or a woman? Would it be Artie Beguelin, the Angel's best man, or my
sweet friend and bridesmaid, Cary Farquhar?

At any rate, he or she would be welcome--oh, so welcome! I hoped the
invisible guest would be happy, and would feel that ours was not a
compulsory hospitality, with the cost counted beforehand and the
benefits we expected in return discounted. No, whoever it was to be
would be a guest and a friend. On the wall over the bed hung