“Bah,” said Judy, halting at the door of the pink room, “they have put you in this atrocious rose-bed.”
“Pink is a charming color,” said Vivienne.
“Yes, in moderation. Come upstairs and see my rooms,” and she slowly ascended another staircase.
Vivienne followed her to the story above, and through a third square hall to a long narrow apartment running the whole length of the northern side of the house.
Judy threw open the door. “Here,” she said, with a flourish of her hand, “having everything against me, I yet managed to arrange a sitting room where one is not in danger of being struck blind by some audacious blue or purple or red. What do you think of it?”
Vivienne glanced about the exquisitely furnished room. “It is charming.”
“Come in,” said Judy, hospitably pulling up a little white chair before the blazing fire. “We’ll have a talk.”
“Do you know,” she went on, seating herself beside Vivienne, “this used to be a lumber room? I got Stanton to come up one day and look at it—he is as artistic in his tastes as mamma is inartistic—and he suggested all this. We cleared out the old furniture and put in those yellow panes of glass to simulate sunshine, and got this satin paper because it would light up well, and he had the white and gold furniture made for me. The cream rugs were a present from Uncle Colonel. Here is my bedroom,” and she hobbled to a door at the western end of the room and threw it open for a full view of the room beyond.
“What a dainty place!” said Vivienne.
“An idea strikes me,” exclaimed Judy, hurrying to the other end of the apartment. “Look here,” and she opened a second door.