and it could advance--as an idea--hardly any further. For with all the
intrepidity and passion of the later Eighteenth Century in its search
for beauty, for all the magic-making of convenience and ingenuity of the
Nineteenth Century, the fundamentals have changed but little. And now we
of the Twentieth Century can only add material comforts and an
expression of our personality. We raise the house beyond the reach of
squalor, we give it measured heat, we give it water in abundance and
perfect sanitation and light everywhere, we give it ventilation less
successfully than we might, and finally we give it the human quality
that is so modern. There are no dungeons in the good modern house, no
disgraceful lairs for servants, no horrors of humidity.

[Illustration: MENNOYER DRAWINGS AND OLD MIRRORS SET IN PANELINGS]

And so we women have achieved a house, luminous with kind purpose
throughout. It is finished--that is our difficulty! We inherit it, all
rounded in its perfection, consummate in its charms, but it is finished,
and what can we do about a thing that is finished I Doesn't it seem that
we are back in the old position of Isabella d'Este--eager, predatory,
and "thingy"? And isn't it time for us to pull up short lest we
sidestep the goal? We are so sure of a thousand appetites we are in
danger of passing by the amiable commonplaces. We find ourselves
dismayed in old houses that look too simple. We must stop and ask
ourselves questions, and, if necessary, plan for ourselves little
retreats until we can find ourselves again.

What is the goal? A house that is like the life that goes on within it,
a house that gives us beauty as we understand it--and beauty of a nobler
kind that we may grow to understand, a house that _looks_ amenity.