It took nine tailors (1948)

212 IT TOOK NINE TAILORS That was the latest thing in those days— a rumpus room. You couldn't throw a party for six people without taking them to the rumpus room, as though you didn't trust them in the parlor. So I decided to have a rumpus room. But in order to make room for one we had to tunnel underneath and dig out an extra space. Unfortunately there was no place to put in a stairway, so we made an outside entrance— very novel. When it was raining, the guests had to use umbrellas to get to it. About this time I was preparing to get married again, so I had my architect start plans for the second house right next door. This was to be a big house. For my new bride I wanted the best. My mother could have the "little" house all to herself. But when Mother came up and took a look at the little house with the three bedrooms and the rumpus room, she would have none of it. "What would I do in a huge house like that?" she asked. "I'd rattle around like four beans in a gourd." I bought a bungalow for Mother in San Fernando Valley and told the architect to stop figuring on a big house because I knew by this time that a big house would cost me a million dollars. Instead we would shift the fine hand-carved doors, oakpaneled walls, and mullioned windows that he had planned for the big house into the little house. By this time the cost of the little house had already mounted to $60,000 and my bride-to-be had decided that she would like to have a swimming pool. "How much will that cost?" I asked the builder. "Not more than eight thousand." "Go ahead," I instructed with a wave of my hand. It cost $14,000 by the time it was fully equipped. And when we finally moved in, the total cost of the little house amounted to $92,000. But I was not cured. A few years later I built the big house at 2606 Nottingham Road— four master bedrooms and quarters for four servants. I still had the plans for it lying around and I hated