or such an accumulation of junk as I extracted from my former nest. Slowly we settled. We would stand of an evening like newly-weds in the newly acquired dominion and plan our furnishings. Yellow and black was to be the color scheme, with my lampshade and piano as keynotes--two armchairs and a divan to be covered with something, and the traces of the era Minard (the officer's wife) to be eliminated. The lace tidies came off, the pictures of Calvary likewise, the strips of carpet put under the bed, and the statuettes and vases hidden. There was a washstand, a double-decker, and a Japanese screen to be disposed of somehow without Madame's guessing that we weren't wild about her furniture. It was days before we dared act. Marje did it. I should have told Madame that we were navrées not to have enough room to keep them and would they be safe in the cellar? but Marje--a diplomatic one--asked Madame if she thought it was quite comme il faut for two young girls to have a washstand in their salon? and with a "I should think not!" it was gone. We looked at cretonnes--plain stripes; then wiggly stripes with roses and a conventional basket; then a formal design of children playing by a table; and on and on--always introducing yellow. Suddenly we saw our cretonne. A big gray pot of deep-rose peonies, with little white birds hovering over, and a little blue wistaria, all against a blue-and-gray lattice, with ultimate background of black. It is gorgeous. The design is twenty-seven inches high. We bought yards and yards--not to say metres and metres. Then came upholstering. We worked with pins and warm language, and in five days had covered the divan, two armchairs, and six pillows. Marje did the pinning. I did the cutting. Then two long straight curtains beside the glass doors. As for our yellow, my wonderful tea-set that I told you about, and some candlesticks painted yellow, and some bright yellow and black-and-tan striped pillows and the lampshade are the only yellow things. In the cretonne was only one pale lemon-colored flower; but I am slowly going round with my little brush and painting in the right yellow with water-colors. It's wonderful, all of it. Then we have a nest of tables of plain unvarnished wood that I got for nineteen francs--four tables for less than four dollars--and we fight constantly as to whether they are to be painted cream or black. You can imagine how lovely my black leather writing-pad that you gave me looks on the table, and with Leo sunning in the bay window, why, Mme. de Sévigné need not apply; and I forgot a gorgeous blue hydrangea that Marje gave me for my birthday. You can't imagine what a difference it makes to have a place to breathe in, and to play in, and to read the "New Republic" in, and to sew in, and to have afternoon tea in, etc. We feel so settled and permanent. Just wait until the war ends and you all come over to call!