"That's just where you're mistaken," I ventured. "It was all outside, but they're getting all they need of it through the cracks on the sides of the curtain."
She sighed.
"And moreover," I added, "I'm going to bed."
And I did; and there were no Silhouettes. At midnight or worse my wife said:
"I don't know much else about that man, but I know one thing."
"What's that?" I asked.
"He's stingy," was her reply; and I'll admit, myself, that he might have turned up the lights just a little while.
But all this is foreign to the House. We awoke next morning to a busy experience, for our friends descended upon us. You know there is one stage through which you will have to pass when you buy a house, and for the sake of a name we'll call it the Inspection of Your Intimates.
The ink is hardly dry on the deed, or mortgage, or agreement, or whatever your instrument of conveyance may be, before you are on the telephone inviting them out to look at you. You want all your friends to see your new house—to make faces at it and chuck it under the chin, to talk baby talk to it and admire your pantry.