It gradually became clear that the romance of the American bungalow was reinforced and strengthened by a realism that was in itself romance, and I was immensely stimulated by this discovery. It was refreshing to find that there are, after all, no irreconcilable differences between a pie well made and a Chopin polonaise well played. Those who must quibble over the point may file a demurrer, if they so please, with the baby asleep in the perambulator on the nearest bungalow veranda, and the child, awaking, will overrule it with a puckered face and a cry that brings mama on the run with Carlyle in her hand. VI Olive was twenty-five. Twenty-five is the standard age, so to speak, of bungalow matrons. My closest scrutiny has failed to discover one a day older. It is too early for any one to forecast the ultimate fate of the bungalow. The bungalow speaks for youth, and whether it will survive as an architectural type, or whether those hopeful young married persons who trustingly kindle their domestic altars in bungalow fireplaces will be found there in contentment at fifty, is not for this writing. What did strike me was the fact that Olive, being twenty-five, was an anomaly as a bungalow lady by reason of her unmarriedness. Her domesticity was complete, her efficiency indisputable, her charm ineffable; and it seemed that here was a chance to perfect a type which I, with my strong scientific bent, could not suffer to pass. By the mere process of changing the name on her visiting card, and moving from a brown to a green bungalow, she might become the perfect representation of the most interesting and delightful type of American women. Half of my study of bungalow life was finished, and a publisher to whom I submitted the early chapters returned them immediately with a contract, whose terms were in all ways generous, so that I was able to view the future in that jaunty confidence with which young folk intrust their fate to the bungalow gods. I looked up from my writing-table, which the chill air had driven indoors, and saw Olive on her lawn engaged in some mysterious occupation. She was whistling the while she dabbed paint with a brush and a sophisticated air upon the bruised legs of the baby’s high chair. At my approach Romance nudged Realism. Or maybe it was Realism that nudged Romance. I cannot see that it makes the slightest difference, one way or another, on whose initiative I spoke: let it suffice that I did speak. Realism and Romance tripped away and left me alone with the situation. When I had spoken Olive rose, viewed her work musingly, with head slightly tilted, and still whistling touched the foot-rest of the baby chair lingeringly with the paint-brush. Those neat cans of prepared paint which place the most fascinating of joys within the range of womankind are in every well-regulated bungalow tool-closet--and another chapter for my book began working in my subconsciousness.