China washing requires a pan nearly full of water of a temperature not uncomfortable to the hand, beaten into a good suds with a soap shaker. Very hot water, or a sudden change from cold to hot, is apt to crack the fine glaze. Use a dish mop for the cleanest dishes, and, beginning with the cups and saucers, and placing only a few in the pan at a time, wash quickly without allowing to soak, rinse in water a little hotter than the first, and wipe until perfectly dry and shiny. Pouring hot water over china and leaving it to drain itself dry may save time, but it will be at the expense of the polish. Spread the dishes out on the table to cool--piling them while hot injures the glaze--and put away the first washing before commencing on the heavy, greasy things. The washing water must be changed as soon as a greasy scum collects around the sides of the pan.
Bone-, wood-, or pearl-handled knives should never go into the dishpan, but be stood, blade down, in a pitcher containing a little water and soda, the blades having first been wiped off with paper, and left till everything else is done. They are then washed singly with clean suds, special care being bestowed upon the juncture of the blade with the handle, rinsed, and dried immediately. If stained, rub with half of a potato or with a cork dipped in powdered pumice stone, wipe dry, wash, and polish with a little bath brick or sapolio. Clean carving knives and forks in the same way, going around the joinings with a rag-covered skewer. Spots can be removed from ivory handles with tripoli mixed with sweet oil; from mother-of-pearl with sifted whiting and alcohol, which is washed off and followed with a polishing with dry whiting and a flannel cloth. Cover rusted knife blades with sweet oil, rub in well, and leave for forty-eight hours, then rub with slaked lime. Britannia, pewter, and block tin in table use are polished the same as silver.
The bedroom is very like an old familiar friend: it sees us as we really are, tempting us to throw off all veneer of pretense or worldliness and rest in just being ourselves--a rest so sweet and wholesome and good that we go from it recreated and strengthened. In the spirit of truest friendship it exacts nothing, but by its subtle, quiet sympathy charms away our restlessness and presents us anew to that person known as our better self. The friend of our choice is the one who wears well; who never intrudes, never wearies, never pains us; whose influence is one of rest, of restoration, of reinspiration--the embodiment of the true mission of the bedroom. It, like our friend, must be able to survive with honor the test of that familiarity which comes with intimacy--whether it shall breed contempt or content. And so as we plan it, let us endeavor to temper our likes and dislikes with judgment until we can be reasonably sure that it will be a room pleasant to live with, and companionable, which will not irritate our moods into becoming moodier, nor our weariness into becoming wearier.