state bed for the occasional visitors of great position.  The great bed, or lit de parade, was representative of all the salons of the time of Louis XIII.  Gradually the owners of the more magnificent houses saw the opportunity for a series of salons, and so the state apartment was divided into two parts:  a salon de famille, which afforded the family a certain privacy, and the salon de compagnie, which was sacred to a magnificent hospitality.  And so the salon expanded until nowadays we use the word with awe, and appreciate its implication of brilliant conversation and exquisite decoration, of a radiant hostess, an amusing and distinguished circle of people.  The word has a graciousness, a challenge that we fear.  If we have not just the right house we should not dare risk belittling our pleasant drawing-room by dubbing it “salon.”  In short, a drawing-room may be a part of any well regulated house.  A salon is largely a matter of spirit and cleverness.

A drawing-room has no place in the house where there is no other living-room.  Indeed, if there are many children, and the house is of moderate size, I think a number of small day rooms are vastly better than the two usual rooms, living-room and drawing-room, because only in this way can the various members of the family have a chance at any privacy.  The one large room so necessary for the gala occasions of a large family may be the dining-room, for here it will be easy to push back tables and chairs for the occasion.  If the children have a nursery, and mother has a small sitting-room, and father has a little room for books and writing, a living-room may be eliminated in favor of a small formal room for visitors and talk.

[Illustration:  THE DRAWING-ROOM SHOULD BE INTIMATE IN SPIRIT]

No matter how large your drawing-room may be, keep it intimate in spirit.  There should be a dozen conversation centers in a large room.  There should be one or more sofas, with comfortable chairs pulled up beside them.  No one chair should be isolated, for some bashful person who doesn’t talk well anyway is sure to take the most remote chair and make herself miserable.  I have seen a shy young woman completely changed because she happened to sit upon a certain deep cushioned sofa of rose-colored damask.  Whether it was the rose color, or the enforced relaxation the sofa induced, or the proximity of some very charming people in comfortable chairs beside her, or all of these things—­I don’t know!  But she found herself.  She found herself gay and happy and unafraid.  I am sure her personality flowered from that hour on.  If she had been left to herself she would have taken a stiff chair in a far corner, and she would have been miserable and self-conscious.  I believe most firmly in the magic power of inanimate objects!