“Isn’t this discourse a little out of season?” said Jack.  “We don’t buy furs in July nor refrigerators in January.  If you expect advice to be followed, you mustn’t offer it too long beforehand.  Now, as your plans haven’t yet recovered from their bath, let us see if Jill’s air-castles can be brought down to the region of human possibilities.”

“I am not quite ready for that,” said Jill.  “First, let me show you the plans my old friend has sent me, and read you her description of them.  Here are the plans and here is the letter: 

“’Of all the plans Will has ever made’—­her ‘Will’ is an architect, you know—­’these seem to me most likely to suit you and Jack, although they are by no means, adapted to conventional, commonplace housekeepers.  In the centre of the first floor the large hall, opening freely to the outside world, is a sort of common ground, hospitable and cheerful, where the stranger guest and the old friend meet; where the children play, where the entire household are free to come and go without formality.  The furniture it contains is for use and comfort.  It is never out of order, because it is subject to no formal rules.  At the left of the hall is the real family home, more secluded and more significant of your own taste and feeling.  Instead of many separate apartments for general family use, here are drawing-room, sitting-room, library and parlor, all in one.  This is the domestic sanctuary, the essential family home into which outsiders come only by special invitation.  From the central hall runs the staircase that leads to the still more personal and private apartments above, one of which belongs to each member of the family.  At the right of the hall is the dining-room, near enough to make its contribution to physical comfort and enjoyment at the proper time, but easily excluded when its inferior service is not required.’

“I don’t understand that,” said Jill.

“I do,” said Jack.  “It means that the meat that perisheth ought not to be set above the feast of reason and flow of soul; that the dining-room ought to be convenient but subordinate, not the most conspicuously elegant part of the establishment, unless we keep a boarding-house and reckon eating the chief end of man.  Where do you say the library is?”

“Included in the drawing-room.  Probably the corner marked ‘Boudoir’ contains a writing desk with more or less books and other literary appliances.  It has a fireplace of its own and portieres would give it complete seclusion.”

[Illustration:  FIRST FLOOR OF WILL’S MASTERPIECE.]

“Where is the smoking-room?”

“I don’t know.  She didn’t send the plans for the stable.”

“How savage!  Please go on with the letter.”

Jill continued: 

“’The floors of the dining-room and hall are on the same level, but that of the drawing-room is one or two feet higher—­’

“I don’t like that at all.  Should stumble forty times a day.”