I knocked on the front door of a large brick house.

"Just a minute," called a soft female voice. From inside, footsteps shuffled and a dress ruffled.

A tall, slender woman in a green silk gown opened the door. I coughed and took off my hat. "Good day, Miss . . ."

"Mrs. Coldwell. Eleanor Coldwell. Do I have the honor of knowing you sir?"

Her old-fashioned, formal greeting surprised me a little. Also, I was amazed by her grace and elegance.

I even felt embarrassed and muttered, "My name is Edward Finn. I read a notice in the newspaper about a house for sale. I guess you are selling the house, if I am not mistaken, Mrs. Coldwell."

She smiled and nodded. "Yes, we are selling the house. Please, come in. I'll show you around."

She invited me in with a smooth sweep of the hand. 

I entered a small, cool hallway as Mrs. Coldwell eased the door shut behind us. "Come," she said. "Let us start with one of the living rooms."

She turned on her heels and glided into a huge room. Heavy green curtains that seemed to serve as a door hid the room. I followed after Mrs. Coldwell, inhaling the sweet odor of her perfume.

I immediately recognized the living room's old-fashioned style. Its design was very popular in earlier years by classy ladies like Mrs. Coldwell.

Paintings in black frames hung against green wallpaper. Crown molding—decorative wooden panels—outlined the high ceiling. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling, gently glistening in the dim light.

Massive, heavy furniture filled the room. There were big, clumsy armchairs with detailed designs on both sides. There was a sofa covered in the same green silk as the curtains and a polished round table carved from a walnut tree.

A tall, spacious black cupboard stood in the left corner of the room. Inside sat expensive silver and crystal dishes and small porcelain statues of little shepherds, cupids, clowns, and dancing fairies.

I stood looking around like I was in a museum. I had only seen such fancy rooms in movies or read about them in French short stories and books. I even forgot why I had come. 

Mrs. Coldwell’s soft voice disrupted my daydreams. "Well, what do you say, Mr. Finn? How do you like it?"

"Hmm . . . It is a very . . . very classical and elegant style, Mrs. Coldwell. Does the furniture come with the house?"

"It does."

"Well, it is beautiful, of course, and looks splendid. I think it is still out of fashion nowadays. I would like to have modern fabrics, you know . . ."

"Oh, my dear Mr. Finn," she sighed, smiling sadly at me. "If only you knew how many romantic evenings I spent in this 'out-of-fashion' room, as you call it. It may seem old now, but the house keeps the spirit and story of the past alive.

These dark walls heard countless interesting and inspiring stories. In that armchair, on your left, a poet named William Morris loved to sit and read his poems to my guests and me. Have you read any of his poems?"

"Well, no, Mrs. Coldwell. I am afraid not," I murmured, a little embarrassed by my lack of knowledge. "May we see the other rooms?" I asked. I did not wish to waste time discussing poetry.