[Illustration:  THE WASHINGTON IRVING HOUSE WAS DELIGHTFULLY RAMBLING]

This favorite love of mine is the old Washington Irving house in New York, the quaint mansion that gave historic Irving Place its name.  For twenty years my friend, Elizabeth Marbury, and I made this old house our home.  Two years ago we reluctantly gave up the old house and moved into a more modern one—­also transformed from old into new—­on East Fifty-fifth Street.  We have also a delightful old house in France, the Villa Trianon, at Versailles, where we spend our summers.  So you see we have had the rare experience of transforming three mistreated old houses into very delightful homes.

When we found this old house, so many years ago, we were very young, and it is amusing now to think of its evolution.  We had so many dreams, so many theories, and we tried them all out on the old house.  And like a patient, well-bred maiden aunt, the old house always accepted our changes most placidly.  There never was such a house!

You could do anything to it, because, fundamentally, it was good.  Its wall spaces were inviting, its windows were made for framing pleasant things.  When we moved there we had a broad sweep of view:  I can remember seeing the river from our dining-room.  Now the city has grown up around the old house and jostled it rudely, and shut out much of its sunshine.

There is a joy in the opportunity of creating a beautiful interior for a new and up-to-date house, but best of all is the joy of furnishing an old house like this one.  It is like reviving an old garden.  It may not be just your idea of a garden to begin with, but as you study it and deck its barren spaces with masses of color, and fit a sundial into the spot that so needs it, and give the sunshine a fountain to play with, you love the old garden just a little more every time you touch it, until it becomes to you the most beautiful garden in all the world.

Gardens and houses are such whimsical things!  This old house of ours had been so long mistreated that it was fairly petulant and querulous when I began studying it.  It asked questions on every turn, and seemed surprised when they were answered.  The house was delightfully rambling, with a tiny entrance hall, and narrow stairs, and sudden up and down steps from one room to another like the old, old house one associates with far-away places and old times.

The little entrance hall was worse than a question, it was a problem, but I finally solved it.  The floor was paved with little hexagon-shaped tiles of a wonderful old red.  A door made of little square panes of mirrors was placed where it would deceive the old hall into thinking itself a spacious thing.  The walls were covered with a green-and-white-stripe wall-paper that looked as old as Rip Van Winkle.  This is the same ribbon-grass paper that I afterward used in the Colony Club hallway.  The woodwork was painted a soft gray-green.  Finally, I had