“This is how they are to be, however,” I made retort serenely. “There is no alternative.”
“What!” he exclaimed, and his face became seriously empurpled. “You mean to say I have no control over my own master’s rooms? I want all my bibelots and petiteries back where I put them, myself. My master’s rooms are my own master’s rooms, and not yours, are they not, pray?”
“My dear General,” I replied, “I know what your master’s rooms should be and you do not. You do not see beauty in them now—perhaps you will not to-morrow—but wait! Within a week or ten days you will begin to feel the restful harmony I have put into them and you will be grateful.”
“I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” he said, stamping his foot pettishly. “I want my bow-backs and my fan-backs back where they were, and I’m sorry I ever put my master’s rooms into your hands! I do just wish I’d never seen you at all, Madame Thomas!”
It was then that I perceived I must use diplomacy, and I admit that if I had not been conscious of wearing a becoming hat, I might have lacked the courage. I put my hand lightly on his arm and looked full into his reddened eyes. “General,” I said softly, “I have labored hard over your master’s rooms. Surely, mon Général, you would not have my task undone!” Then, seeing that he began to melt, I drew a little closer to him; and he set his manly brown paw over my slender fingers, smiled at me, and coughed. I comprehended that the moment had come to use my utmost diplomacy.
“Oo drate bid naughty handsome mans!” I said playfully. “If I had a dun I’d shoot oo, bang!”
It is perhaps scarcely necessary to add that his master’s rooms remained as I had done them, and that the dear old General and I are still the best of friends.
And now a few “Don’ts,” as I call my little inhibitions. Some of them are culled from my own experience and are rather technical, being intended for the use of the beginning professional decorator, who is but too prone to find her path not always strewn with roses, by any means. Others of these little “Don’ts” of mine are for the guidance of those who, unable to afford the counsel of established experts, must fall back upon their own taste and what they may be able to cull from tomes upon the subject. But let us see for ourselves what my “Don’ts” portend!
Don’t, in arranging your bookshelves under the arch in the living-room, place your editions of Boccaccio, Brantôme, Rabelais, and Casanova on the same shelf with Burton’s “Arabian Nights,” “The Heptameron,” Balzac’s “Droll Stories,” and your bound files of “Saucy Stories” and “Le Rire.” The place for all of these volumes is the centre-table; or they may be scattered about the house anywhere, so that they are handy for the children to get at them.