The Lad, following with her handbag, stopped to look at his tennis shoes
before he set foot upon the white rug, and dusted off the bag with a
somewhat grimy handkerchief before he stood it on the white-tiled
hearth. The Lad knows how I feel about the room, and though he races
into his own with muddy feet, stands in awe of the place where only
girls are made at home.

* * * * *

I have but two maid-servants, both of whom must be busy in kitchen and
dining-room when the house is full of guests. So I always make the
rounds of the bedrooms in the evening, to see to lights and water, and
to turn down the coverings on the beds. The Skeptic's room needed only a
touch here and there to put it in order for the night. The Philosopher's
needed none. The Gay Lady had left her pretty, rose-hung quarters
looking as if a lady lived in them, and had but dropped a dainty
reminder of herself here and there to give them character--an
embroidered dressing-case on the bureau, an attractive travelling
work-box on the table by her bed, a photograph, a lace-bordered
handkerchief, a gossamer scarf on a chair-back ready for use if she
should need it for a stroll in the moonlight with the Skeptic. The
closet door, ajar, gave a glimpse of summer frocks, hanging in order on
padded hangers brought in a trunk; beneath, a row of incredibly small,
smart shoes stood awaiting their turn. Even the Gay Lady's trunk was
clad in a trim, beflowered cover of linen, and looked a part of the
place. I smiled to myself as I turned down the white sheets over my best
down-filled quilt of pale pink, and thought of the Gay Lady's delightful
custom of keeping her room swept and dusted without letting anybody know
when she did it.