“Nonsense! you won’t do any such thing,” said Phil. “It’s not so very terrible, though I must confess it’s a sweet-looking boudoir for a French lady to come to, but it can be fixed easy enough. I’ll help. I can see the end from the beginning. First, we’ll have two or three strong women. I know where they are. I’ll get ’em. Then we’ll pitch every identical old dud out of the window and make a good bonfire—that falls naturally to the boys. Then we, or rather, the women, will go at the room, hammer and tongs, with soap, and sand, and water, and burnt feathers, if necessary. Then we’ll get a glazier and have new window-lights put in, and a painter with paint-pot and brush, and a paperer to cover the walls with—let me see, what shade will suit her complexion, I wonder. Is she skim-milky, with tow hair, like the Fergusons generally, or is she dark, like the Hethertons, do you suppose?” “I’m sure I don’t know or care whether she is like a Dutch doll or black as a nigger. I only wish she would stay in France, where she belongs,” growled Mr. Beresford, very hot and very sweaty, and a good deal soiled with the dust from the bed-curtains which Phil had shaken so vigorously. “Take it cool, old fellow,” returned Phil. “You’ll be head and ears in love, and go down on your knees to her in less than a month.” “She’ll be the first woman I ever went on my knees to,” said Mr. Beresford, while Phil continued: “Reinette is light, of course; there never was a Ferguson yet who had not a complexion like a cheese, so we will have the paper a soft, creamy tint, of some intricate pattern, which she can study at her leisure, mornings when she is awake and does not wish to get up. That settles the paper, and now for the furniture—something light—oak, of course, and real oak, no sham for the queen. Mosquito net—coarse, white lace, trimmed with blue, for blondes and blue always go together. So, we’ll loop the muslin window curtains back with blue, and have some blue and white what do you call ’em, Beresford—those square things the girls are always making for backs of chairs, and bureaus, and cushions; you know what I mean?” “No I don’t. I’m not a fool to know all the paraphernalia of a girl’s bed-chamber,” said Mr. Beresford, while Phil replied, with imperturbable good nature: “Neither am I a fool because I can no more enter a room without knowing every article and color in it, and whether they harmonize or not, than you can help hearing of a projected law-suit without wondering if you shall have a hand in it; _chacun à son goût_, my good fellow. You see I am beginning to air my French, as I dare say this little French queen speaks atrocious English. Do you understand French, Beresford?”