"Now, my dear Dorothea, I wish you to favour me by pointing out which room you would like to have as your boudoir," said Mr Casaubon, showing that his views of the womanly nature were sufficiently large to include that requirement.
"It is very kind of you to think of that," said Dorothea, "but I assure you I would rather have all those matters decided for me. I shall be much happier to take everything as it is—just as you have been used to have it, or as you will yourself choose it to be. I have no motive for wishing anything else."
"O Dodo," said Celia, "will you not have the bow-windowed room up-stairs?"
Mr Casaubon led the way thither. The bow-window looked down the avenue of limes; the furniture was all of a faded blue, and there were miniatures of ladies and gentlemen with powdered hair hanging in a group. A piece of tapestry over a door also showed a blue-green world with a pale stag in it. The chairs and tables were thin-legged and easy to upset. It was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a tight-laced lady revisiting the scene of her embroidery. A light bookcase contained duodecimo volumes of polite literature in calf, completing the furniture.
"Yes," said Mr Brooke, "this would be a pretty
