e hanging out of the sixth
floor window to watch them. The gentle-mannered janitor and his buxom
daughter were cleaning the last of the windows, and such was the genius
of fortune and Mary that at three that same afternoon, when the best
man called to see how we were getting on, there was nothing left to do
but to hang pictures, so we set him to doing that while we sat around
in languid delight and bossed the job. But it was thirsty work, and
the best man rested often. Such perfection of planning seemed to
irritate him, although he is by nature a gentle soul, for he said, "I
must say you have done well, but I'll bet there is one thing you have
forgotten."

"Not at all," said Aubrey, who was at college with the best man.
"There are six siphons on the ice now, and six more under the kitchen
sink. The corkscrew is on the mantel."

All the pictures were hung before dinner. That is, they were hung for
the first time. The pictures in our apartment have travelled. One by
one they have journeyed from the smoking-room down the long hall,
stopping a day or two in each room, and all finding a resting-place
except one, which will not look well in any colour, any spot, on any
wall, nor in any light. It was a wedding-present from some one we
like, or Aubrey would have put his foot through it long ago. As it is,
it is under the blue room bed, whence we drag it every once in awhile
to admire the frame and say, "I wonder if it wouldn't go there."

As long as that picture remains unhung, a vacant wall space in any
house is full of interest and possibility to us, and if we ever move,
we shall select a spot for that picture first, and consider the rent
and plumbing second.

The janitor's manners continued perfect. Even Mary found no fault with
him, and as my appreciation for anything is plainly evident in my
manner, both Mary and the janitor felt that in me they had found a
friend, and they waxed confidential withal.

One day he came up to clean windows, and when he mentioned the
"parlour," I said:

"Don't call this room a parlour. I have neither parlour nor
drawing-room. This small room is a smoking-room, and this other is a
library. I wanted Mr. Jardine to feel at liberty to smoke all over the
house."

The janitor looked about him and noticed the lack of gilt chairs and
lace curtains.

"Will you excuse an old man for speaking, Mrs. Jardine, and not think
me impertinent if I make free to say that if more young ladi