"This is the bedroom. Weren't we lucky to get two windows! The sun just pours in all day--in fact, every room is sunny, even the kitchen." The Reading Club regarded the bedroom rather nervously. Celia Sprague had been one of them, so long. And now.... Two small French beds of dark mahogany, with a silken counterpane on each. "No, just you put your things right down on the beds, girls. It won't hurt the spreads a bit. Everything in this house is going to be used. That's what it's for." On the bed nearest the wall a little rosy mound of lingerie pillows, all afroth with filet, and Irish, and eyelet embroidery and cut work. Celia had spent countless Reading Club afternoons on this handiwork. The rosy mound served no more practical purpose than the velvet and embroidered slippers that used to hang on the wall in her grandmother's day. Two silver-backed military brushes on the dull mahogany chest of drawers--"chiffo-robe," Celia would tell you. The Reading Club eyed them, smiling a little. Celia opened a closet door to dilate upon its roominess. A whole battalion of carefully-hung trousers leaped out at them from the door-rack. The Reading Club actually stepped back a little, startled. "Orville's clothes take up more room than mine, I always tell him. And everything just so. I never saw such a man!" She talked as one to whom men and their ways were an old, though amusing, story. "He's the neatest thing." Out to the living room. "Oh, Celia this _is_ sweet! I love your desk. It's so different." The room was the conventional bridal living room; a plum-coloured velvet davenport, its back against a long, very retiring table whose silk-shaded lamp showed above the davenport's broad back like someone playing hide-and-seek behind a hedge. There were lamps, and lamps, and lamps--a forest of them. The book-shelves on either side of the gas-log grate held a rather wistful library, the wedding gift "sets" of red and gold eked out with such school-girl fillers as the Pepper Books, Hans Brinker, and Louisa Alcott. "A woman twice a week--one day to clean and one to wash and iron. Orville wants me to have a maid but I say what for? She'd have to sleep out and you never can depend--besides, it's just play. We have dinner out two or three nights----" They were seated now, twittering, each with her knitting. A well-dressed, alert group of women, their figures trim in careful corsets, their hair, teeth, complexions showing daily care and attention. The long slim needles--ebony, amber, white--flew and flashed in the sunlight. "... This is my sixth sweater. I do 'em in my sleep." "... It's the heel that's the trick. Once I've passed that----" "... My brother says we'll never go in. We're a peace-loving nation, he says. We simply don't believe in war. Barbaric."