“Mr. Styvvisont has arrive’,” he said; “he waits you.”
“Welcome to our city,” Peter cried, appearing in the doorway of the room Alphonse was indicating with that high gesture of delight with which only a Frenchman can lead the way. “Jimmie’s coming up from the office and Beulah’s due any minute. What do you think of the place, girls?”
“Is it really yours, David?” 171
“Surest thing you know.” He grinned like a schoolboy. “It’s really ours, that’s what it is. I’ve broken away from the mater at last,” he added a little sheepishly. “I’m going to work seriously. I’ve got an all-day desk job in my uncle’s office and I’m going to dig in and see what I can make of myself. Also, this is going to be our headquarters, and Eleanor’s permanent home if we’re all agreed upon it,—but look around, ladies. Don’t spare my blushes. If you think I can interior decorate, just tell me so frankly. This is the living-room.”
“It’s like that old conundrum—black and white and red all over,” Gertrude said. “I never saw anything so stunning in all my life.”
“Gosh! I admire your nerve,” Peter cried, “papering this place in white, and then getting in all this heavy carved black stuff, and the red in the tapestries and screens and pillows.”
“I wanted it to look studioish a little,” David explained, “I wanted to get away from Louis Quartorze.”
“And drawing-rooms like mother used to make,” Gertrude suggested. “I like your Oriental touches. Do you see, Margaret, everything is Indian or 172 Chinese? The ubiquitous Japanese print is conspicuous by its absence.”
“I’ve got two portfolios full of ’em,” David said, “and I always have one or two up in the bedrooms. I change ’em around, you know, the way the Japs do themselves, a different scene every few days and the rest decently out of sight till you’re ready for ’em.”
“It’s like a fairy story,” Margaret said.