My lady was a sensuous creature, loving color and
flowers and the dainty appointments of life as much
in the surroundings of her home as in the adornment
of her person, and it was not many weeks before
the old-fashioned sitting-room had been transformed
into a French boudoir. In this metamorphosis she
had used but few pieces of new furniture--one or
two, perhaps, that she had picked up in the village,
as well as some bits of mahogany and brass that she
loved--but had depended almost entirely upon the
rearrangement of the heirlooms of the family. With
the boudoir idea in view, she had pulled the old
tables out from the walls, drawn the big sofa up to
the fire, spread a rug--one of her own--before the
mantel, hung new curtains at the windows and
ruffled their edges with lace, banked the sills with
geraniums and begonias, tilted a print or two beside
the clock, scattered a few books and magazines
over the centre-table, on which she had placed a big,
generous lamp, under whose umbrella shade she could
see to read as she sat in her grandmother's rocking-
chair--in fact, had, with that taste inherent in some
women--touched with a knowing hand the dead
things about her and made them live and mean
something;--her talisman being an unerring sense
of what contributed to personal comfort.
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