My dear old Ilgenstein fell into the hands of a tyrannical horde of workmen, who turned everything topsy-turvy. If I expressed a wish, "Baron," they'd say, "that is not in good taste." Well, I let them have their way. At that time I still had slavish respect for so-called "good taste." It was not until much later that I realised that in most cases back of "good taste" there is nothing but lack of real taste. Well, to cut it short, the bunch of them carried on so fearfully in the name of that cursed "good taste" that finally nothing was left in my dear old castle but my hunting-room and study. Here I emphatically put my foot down on good taste. And my narrow old cot! Nobody, of course, was allowed to touch that. Gentlemen, that cot! And now listen. One day my sister, who stood in with the vile crew, came to my room--with a certain bitter-sweet, bashful smile--the kind old maids always smile when the question of how children come into the world is touched upon. "I have something to say to you, George," she said, cleared her throat, and peered into the corners. "Fire away." "Has it occurred to you," she stammered, "I mean, of course--I mean--you see--you won't be able to sleep any more in that horrible straw bag of a bed of yours." "Now, then, do let me have my comfort," I said. "You don't understand," she lisped, getting more confused. "I mean after--when--I mean after the wedding." The devil! I had never thought of that! And I, old sinner though I was, I looked just as shamefaced as she. "I'll have to speak to the cabinet-maker," I said. "George," she observed with a very important air, "forgive me, but I understand more about such matters than you." "Eh, eh," I said, and shook my finger at her. It had always been such fun for me to shock her old-maidishness. She blushed scarlet, and said: "I saw wonderful, perfectly wonderful bedroom furniture at my friends, Frau von Housselle and Countess Finkenstein. You _must_ have your bedroom furnished the same way." "Go ahead," I said. I'll have to tell you, gentlemen, why I gave in so easily. I knew my father-in-law-to-be, the old miser, would not want to spend a single cent on a trousseau. So I had said I had everything. Then I had to hustle and order whatever was needed from Berlin and Koenigsberg. Of course, I had forgotten about the bed. "What would you rather have," my sister went on, "pink silk covered with plain net, or blue with Valenciennes lace? Perhaps it would be a good idea to tell the decorator who is doing the dining-room to paint a few Cupids on the ceiling." Oh, oh, oh, gentlemen, fancy! I and Cupids! "The bed," she continued mercilessly, "can't be made to order any more." "What," I said, "not in six weeks?" "Why, George! The drawings, the plans alone require a month." I glanced sadly at my dear old bed--it hadn't needed any plans. Just six boards and four posts knocked together in one morning.