A woman's environment will speak for her life, whether she likes it or
not. How can we believe that a woman of sincerity of purpose will hang
fake "works of art" on her walls, or satisfy herself with imitation
velvets or silks? How can we attribute taste to a woman who permits
paper floors and iron ceilings in her house? We are too afraid of the
restful commonplaces, and yet if we live simple lives, why shouldn't we
be glad our houses are comfortably commonplace? How much better to have
plain furniture that is comfortable, simple chintzes printed from old
blocks, a few good prints, than all the sham things in the world? A
house is a dead-give-away, anyhow, so you should arrange is so that the
person who sees your personality in it will be reassured, not
disconcerted.
Too often, here in America, the most comfortable room in the house is
given up to a sort of bastard collection of gilt chairs and tables,
over-elaborate draperies shutting out both light and air, and huge and
frightful paintings. This style of room, with its museum-like
furnishings, has been dubbed "Marie Antoinette," _why_, no one but the
American decorator can say. Heaven knows poor Marie Antoinette had
enough follies to atone for, but certainly she has never been treated
more shabbily than when they dub these mausoleums "Marie Antoinette
rooms.
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