But all this is foreign to the House. We awoke next morning to a busy experience, for our friends descended upon us. You know there is one stage through which you will have to pass when you buy a house, and for the sake of a name we'll call it the Inspection of Your Intimates. The ink is hardly dry on the deed, or mortgage, or agreement, or whatever your instrument of conveyance may be, before you are on the telephone inviting them out to look at you. You want all your friends to see your new house--to make faces at it and chuck it under the chin, to talk baby talk to it and admire your pantry. The first crack out of the box Mrs. Smith walks in, sizes up the exterior with a sweeping glance as she enters, sniffs the atmosphere laden with fresh smells and as you stand at judgment remarks: "H'm!" Now, "H-m!" may mean any one of twenty-seven things. You stand on one foot and wait. "My goodness, what small rooms!" is the next remark, which is somewhat softened by the addition, "but the wall paper is very pretty," and the reservation damns the praise again, "in places." All this time you are alternating flushes and chills. Your spinal column is a sort of marathon track for emotions. You go through the house with her and show the bathroom with its shower, over which she enthuses, and you are in the seventh heaven of satisfaction. But the minute she reaches the third floor, which is a sort of three-quarter floor, your heart sinks again, because she remarks: "I suppose you will just use these little rooms for storage!" And you had fondly thought of occupying them yourself and renting the second floor to help out your investment. Mrs. Smith thinks your piano is too brilliant on the hardwood floor, and when she has gone home you shove a rug under it. Mrs. Jones comes next day and says it sounds dead on the rug, and you put it back on the floor. Mrs. Brown gets you to try it both ways in her presence and concludes that it lacks elevation and would sound better if you took it upstairs; while Mrs. Harris conceives the novel idea of turning the conservatory into a music-room for the benefit of the base tiling. Your prides-in-chief are the linen closet, the big closets in each room, the gas range, the refrigerator built into the wall and the plumbing fixtures. And you are a bit peeved when Mrs. Johnson passes every one of these features by with calm indifference and raves over an unimportant railing you've had hammered onto the back porch. Nearly every one of your Intimates comments on the fact that your yard looks like a quarry, but you assure each one that William is going to put on a top soil and seed it down and you are going to plant a turnip and substitute a peach tree for the oak that was struck by lightning. You work yourself up into a human catalogue of advantages as you describe your wonderful plans, and then your Intimate shakes her head smilingly.