“She’ll probably ruin my enamel dressing table with toilet water and ring my piano top with wet glasses and spatter grease on the kitchenette wall. But I’ll be earning a million,” Harrietta announced, recklessly, “or thereabouts. Why should I care?”

She did care, though, as a naturally neat and thrifty woman cares for her household goods which have, through years of care of them and association with them, become her household gods. The clock on the mantel wasn’t a clock, but a plump friend with a white smiling face and a soothing tongue; the low, ample davenport wasn’t a davenport only, but a soft bosom that pillowed her; that which lay spread shimmering beneath her window was not New York alone — it was her View. To a woman like this, letting her apartment furnished is