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Qhapter II
LOS ANGELES— FROM A BUNGALOW COURT
/~7~'OR £ioa month we were in some luxury. The front ^ J room of our new bungalow was wide, acting as drawing-room on one side of the entrance door, as dining-room on the other. In the middle of the drawingroom wall a wide door of glass hung with lace curtains looked as though it led to yet more palatial quarters, but disclosed a shallow recess in which was a double-bedded mattress standing on its head, one of those collapsible bedsteads so valuable in the comic films, the springs of which go wrong at the wrong moment and snap up the unlucky sleeper as though it was the lower jaw of Jonah's whale itself. To the right of these fictitious doors a smaller door led to an authentic bedroom, with an orthodox bed, on which I lay for another month, taking in such haphazard impressions of the city as came within my limited range. From the dining portion of our front room the door led into a true American movie kitchen, with ice-box, air-cooler, collapsible ironingboard, automatic water-heater, gas oven, and folding tables. Between the kitchen and my bedroom was the space that threatens to become as sacred in any American house as was the chapel in a Gothic chateau, the bathroom.
London lodgings can be dreary to an indescribable degree, but they have a character which often makes us like to imagine that they have been furnished by an industrious though tasteless jackdaw. But the American rooming-house seems as if it had been handed over, lock, stock, and barrel, to the merchant in second-hand suites. We are often tempted
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