Mrs Parkinson had no faith in furniture polish sold by grocers or oil and colourmen, or made from a family recipe. If the wood was good, dry rubbing was the best polish, and all the wood in her house was good. Brushing down walls was very well for day-to-day cleaning; but every three months the wall-paper had, moreover, to be cleaned with dough. Once a-week all curtains were taken down and shaken and brushed. Once a-day all carpets were whisked. Four times a-year all carpets were raised and beaten. Everything was in its place. Everything was tidy and yet the whole was not severe. Everything in the house was for reasonable use; there is no use for dirt, therefore there was no dirt in that house. The whole looked hearty and not prim. There were no filigree, no nick-nacks. You found nothing on a chimney-piece because someone happened to have bought it at a sale, or someone died and left it to the owner of the house. Paintings were not hung on the walls of rooms to hide defects or attract a careless eye, like patches on a beauty's face. If you wanted to see Mr Parkinson's works of art, except a few pictures of still-life in the dining-room, you had to go to a room specially set apart for them. Here they lay secure against causing offence to those who did not deliberately seek them. The theory was that works of art, merely as works of art, are out of place in ordinary rooms, and, being matter out of place, are dirt. With the works of art were kept most of the books. Naturally, books are as much works of art as pictures or bronzes or plaster casts. The scientific books and all books impinging on scientific matters he kept in his own room, his working-room, his laboratory or study. The works of art were stored in a room at the top of the house. His own room was on the ground floor, behind the dining-room. To dine at Parkinson's was to enjoy a treat. You had the most suave and intelligent of hosts, the most simple, lively, and good-humoured of hostesses. The linen was dazzling, the glass dainty, delicate; the cutlery and silver made furrows of the deepest shade, pools of brilliant glitter. The smart parlour-maid who waited, came and went silently, efficiently. To cooking as good as you could find in a West-End club was added the peaceful seclusion of home. The host was a clever talker, the hostess a fascinating listener. If you were dull, and did not wish to talk, the host took up the ball and interested you. If you were lively and full of spirits the hostess devoted herself to you, and showed more interest in what you had to say than you yourself felt. You got good wholesome wine, and as dinner went on you got the crowning effect of the festival--the gradually-developed certainty that your host and hostess were on the best of terms with one another; and that if to-morrow they found some flaw in their marriage, they would run out of the house without waiting for hat or bonnet, and get married by the first man able and willing to tie the knot.