"Grovel!" cried Aunt Julia, "grovel! I like that. In my time, a housewife knew what she was doing--" "That's just it," I interrupted. "In your time, Aunt Julia, there were housewives. I hate the phrase. Housewife--wife of the house. I want my wife for myself, not for my house. In your time, I dare say, women so far forgot themselves--yes, forgot themselves, Aunt Julia--as to discuss the laundry, or the market, with their husbands. That, I may say, is not our idea. I want your dear little niece to stay in her drawing-room--" "Stay in her--what?" cried Aunt Julia ferociously. "I repeat: her drawing-room. Oh, I know that you would prefer that I say 'parlor.' I decline to do so. It is a word that grates on my nerves. In England, they have 'parlors' in hovels. You enter the 'parlor' direct from the street. It is quite unnecessary to cast a stigma on a room. Drawing-room sounds much more refined. With us it will be drawing-room." "I think Archie is right, Aunt Julia," said Letitia, looking up from _De Amicitia_, and smiling at me--dear little girl! "It is a prettier term, isn't it? 'Parlor' sounds so awfully poor, and--well, dear, we are really not awfully poor. It is the little refinements of life that count. I don't think I could feel at home in a parlor. I just adore the notion of my drawing-room." Aunt Julia laughed. It wasn't one of those laughs that signify merriment. It was that contemptuous something that we call a laugh for want of a better word. I should classify it as a snortch, or a sniffth. It angered me considerably. "There are no drawing-rooms," continued Letitia's relative, "in One-Hundred-and-Fourth Street, near Columbus Avenue. I should think you would be satisfied to hear them called 'parlors.' Cubby-holes would be more appropriate. Of course, I may be all wrong. Of course. Ha! Ha! To talk as though you owned Marlborough House, or Buckingham Palace, or Vanderbilt's mansion! Ha! Ha! It is too preposterous." I saw a flush on my Letitia's face. She had closed her Cicero with a sigh. All this small-talk was nerve-racking. "A drawing-room," persisted Aunt Julia, "is literally the room to which the guests withdraw after dinner. I imagine that your guests will withdraw to it not only after dinner, but after luncheon and breakfast as well. In fact they will be obliged to withdraw there or sit on the fire-escape. By-the-by, have you a fire-escape?" As though I knew or cared! Fancy selecting a home, and inquiring if there were any means by which you could escape from it. I did not answer. My mind was brooding over the question of withdrawing from the dining-room. Next to our dining-room was the bathroom. It was rather an odd arrangement, especially as bathing is considered dangerous immediately after eating. The man who designed our "home" evidently thought that a bath after a meal was a good thing. Otherwise, why place the bathroom next to the dining-room?