“Well, well,” he chuckled.  “I reckon Napoleon Bonaparte wouldn’t have thought this any too fine for him, but it sort of dazzles me.  I’m glad somebody’s got that bed ready to sleep in.  I shouldn’t have been sure ’twas meant for that, if they hadn’t.  There seems to be another room on behind this one—­what’s that?”

He marched across and looked in.  “Now, if I was rich, I wouldn’t mind having one of these opening right out of my room.  What there isn’t in here for keeping yourself clean can’t be thought of.”

“Rufus,” said his wife solemnly, following him into the white-tiled bathroom, “I want you should look at these bath-towels.  I never in my life set eyes on anything like them.  They must have cost—­I don’t know what they cost—­I didn’t know there were such bath-towels made!”

“I don’t want to wrap myself in a blanket,” asserted her husband.  “I want to know I’ve got a towel in my hand, that I can whisk round me and slap myself with.  Look here, let’s get to bed.  We could sit up all night examining round into our accommodations.  For my part, Eleanor’s style of living suits me a good deal better than this kind of elegance.  Her house is fine and comfortable, but no foolishness.  There’s one thing I do like, though.  This carpet feels mighty good to your bare feet, I’ll make sure!”

He presently made sure, walking back and forth barefooted across the soft floor, chuckling like a boy, and making his toes sink into the heavy pile of the great rug.  He surveyed his small wife, in her dressing-gown, sitting before the wide mirror of an elaborate dressing-table, putting her white locks into crimping pins.

“Ruth,” said he, with sudden solemnity, “I forgot to undress in my dressing-room.  Had I better put my clothes on and go take ’em off again in there?”

He pointed across to an adjoining room, brilliant with lights and equipped with all manner of furnishings adapted to masculine uses.

His wife turned about, laughing like a girl.  “Maybe in there,” she suggested, “you could find a chair small enough to hang your coat across the back of.  I’m afraid it’ll get all wrinkled, folded like that.”

Uncle Rufus explored.  After a minute he came back.  “There’s a queer sort of bureau-thing in there all filled with coat-and-pants hangers,” he announced.  “I’m going to put my things in it.  It’ll keep ’em from getting wrinkled, as you say.”

When he returned:  “There’s another bed in there,” he said.  “I don’t know what it’s for.  It’s got the covers all turned back, too, just like this one.  Maybe we’ve made a mistake.  Maybe there’s somebody that has that room, and he hasn’t come in yet.  Do you suppose I’d better shut the door between?”

“Maybe you had,” agreed his wife anxiously.  “It would be dreadful if he should come in after a while.  Still—­young Mr. Kendrick called it your dressing-room.”

“And my clothes are in there,” added Uncle Rufus.  “It’s all right.  Probably the girl made a mistake when she fixed that bed—­thought there was a child with us, maybe.”