I believe that Stanford set the fashion here of building to our latitude. We had formerly copied the British in our homes, using red brick or brownstone, with small windows, reps curtains, and nailed-down carpets of warm dark brown and scarlet—the stuff of the north for New York City, which is the latitude of Madrid. The change was to blond brick, marble, or Missouri limestone for the outside; and stone or polished floors, Turkish rugs or mats for the inside, with a decided lightening of the color scheme, so much so that a great “gag” was to call the firm “McKim, White, and Gold.” To show that most of their tendencies were for light interiors, a remark of Stanford’s can be quoted. He told a woman, for whom he had just finished an ivory-colored room, when she asked him what to put on the walls, “Oh, any color as long as it is red.” Any painter knows that, given white as a background, the only color one can trust the average citizen with is red. It takes an artist to put blue and white or green and white together; and some one with a Whistlerian feeling to put black and white together; but a child can use red and white. Nothing could be more different in style than the buildings Stanford designed—the Madison Square Garden, the Metropolitan Club, Doctor Parkhurst’s Church (which has now been torn down), or any of his business buildings, are each made for the things they were to house. His personal tastes were absolutely under the control of his artistic feelings, and his sensitiveness was so great that he could lose his own personality. When he fitted up his own house in Gramercy Park, the music room was not his, it belonged to his family and their friends, and he made it more beautifully classic than anything I have seen in North America. A flight or two up was his own room. Vercingetorix in his cave with all his spoils piled up around him! Everything he cared about (and he wanted it at once) and a heterogeneous mass of priceless books, paintings, draperies, all in a careless disorder, was happiness to him in his own den. I was in The Players when Stanny returned from his trip to Virginia, having been asked to restore the principal building of the university, which had been designed and built by Thomas Jefferson. As we sat together over something to drink he seemed to be puzzled, confused, and silent. I asked him what was the matter. He started and came out of his mood, saying it was the job down South. “I’ve seen _his_ plans,” he said, speaking with great deference. “They’re wonderful and I am scared to death. I only hope I can do it right.” This left me with a conception of the greatness of Jefferson in another rôle of which I was ignorant—his architectural side. He is constantly impressing me as our first American—an artist and, like all the big ones, a true democrat. He represented the ideas of to-day and was farsighted enough to know they were coming.