A couple of months ago I dreamed that we were moving into a big Victorian in Toronto that was decidedly French in feel, and that for years had been the locale of some wonderfully decadent parties. The home’s previous owner was an eccentric socialite who had chosen to leave behind her crystal flutes and silver lobster forks for us to use. The house was grand but well lived in, and the low maintenance garden, planted around a large stone terrace, was filled with potted geraniums, hydrangeas and impatiens. It was all quite beautiful.