Three weeks, in fact, saw them settled in the finished portion of the house, while a small army of workmen still struggled with unfinished rooms and grounds and garden, under Dorothy's direction. Lawrence Macgowan was the first guest to view the new home, or rather the completed portion of it. Armstrong brought him down from the city over a week-end, and eagerly displayed the grounds and house. He was delighted by his friend's unchecked enthusiasm and endorsement of everything that was being done. At dinner, Macgowan heard the story about the decorators, and roared over it. When they had adjourned to the living room and were discussing Dorothy's choice of rugs, Macgowan stood with his back to the log fire, fingering his cigar; then he turned impulsively to Dorothy, and spoke. "My dear Dorothy, may I make a frank confession?" Dorothy's smile belied the flash of steel in her glance. "Certainly, if Reese may be a party to it!" "Oh, he's a part of it." Macgowan chuckled, in his odd manner of being inwardly amused over something unspoken. "You see, like every confirmed bachelor who beholds his best friend embarking on the wine-dark sea of matrimony, I have hitherto, my dear Dorothy, been ungallant enough to congratulate you--quite irrespective of your charming qualities--upon the acquisition of your husband." He paused, regarding Dorothy with his slightly aggressive, straightforward gaze. His air was half reflective, half admiring. "Well, where's the crime in that?" she demanded brightly. "Don't you suppose that women ever think they are fortunate? We're not all stuck-up prigs, grandly convinced of the blessings we bestow--not a bit of it!" Macgowan waved his cigar. "Ah, but I confess my error! It is Reese who deserves the congratulations which I now tender with all my heart, not with the lips alone! Wives are easily found, my dear fellow," turning to Armstrong, "but home-makers are rare, I assure you. So rare, indeed, that I--" He ended with a sigh and a gesture, as though the rarity of home-makers accounted for his own single state. Then, with a sudden thrust of his cigar, he indicated the rooms beyond. "Look at this place! Look at that burnt-ivory woodwork, those rugs, these bits of polished wood that we call furniture! Look at those bright yellow valences, those blue curtains, that pinkish splendor of a Kirman on the floor! Why, the raw fighting colors are as sweetly harmonious, as delicately blended, as the vivid hues of some old Chinese embroidery! Only an artist can blend raw colors.