ON the first of December, Mrs. Lee took the train for Washington, and before five
o'clock that evening she was entering her newly hired house on Lafayette Square. She
shrugged her shoulders with a mingled expression of contempt and grief at the curious
barbarism of the curtains and the wall-papers, and her next two days were occupied
with a life-and-death struggle to get the mastery over her surroundings. In this awful
contest the interior of the doomed house suffered as though a demon were in it; not a
chair, not a mirror, not a carpet, was left untouched, and in the midst of the worst
confusion the new mistress sat, calm as the statue of Andrew Jackson in the square
under her eyes, and issued her orders with as much decision as that hero had ever
shown. Towards the close of the second day, victory crowned her forehead. A new era,
a nobler conception of duty and existence, had dawned upon that benighted and
heathen residence. The wealth of Syria and Persia was poured out upon the
melancholy Wilton carpets; embroidered comets and woven gold from Japan and
Teheran depended from and covered over every sad stuff-curtain; a strange medley of
sketches, paintings, fans, embroideries, and porcelain was hung, nailed, pinned, or
stuck against the wall; finally the domestic altarpiece, the mystical Corot landscape, was
hoisted to its place over the parlour fire, and then all was over. The setting sun
streamed softly in at the windows, and peace reigned in that redeemed house and in
the heart of its mistress.
"I think it will do now, Sybil," said she, surveying the scene.
"It must," replied Sybil. "You haven't a plate or a fan or coloured scarf left. You must
send out and buy some of these old negro-women's bandannas if you are going to
cover anything else. What is the use? Do you suppose any human being in Washington
will like it? They will think you demented."
"There is such a thing as self-respect," replied her sister, calmly.
Sybil--Miss Sybil Ross--was Madeleine Lee's sister. The keenest psychologist could not
have detected a single feature quality which they had in common, and for that reason
they were devoted friends. Madeleine was thirty, Sybil twenty-four. Madeleine was
indescribable; Sybil was transparent. Madeleine was of medium height with a graceful
figure, a well-set head, and enough golden-brown hair to frame a face full of varying
expression. Her eyes were never for two consecutive hours of the same shade, but
were more often blue than grey. People who envied her smile said that she cultivated a
sense of humour in order to show her teeth. Perhaps they were right; but there was no
doubt that her habit of talking with gesticulation would never have grown upon her
unless she had known that her hands were not only beautiful but expressive. She
dressed as skilfully as New York women do, but in growing older she began to show
symptoms of dangerous unconventionality. She had been heard to express a low
opinion of her countrywomen who blindly fell down before the golden calf of Mr. Worth,
