"This is grim," said Pamela to herself. "Something must be done. First
of all, I must get them to send me some rugs--they will cover this awful
floor--and half a dozen cushions and some curtains and bits of
embroidery and some table linen and sheets and things. Idiot that I was
not to bring them with me!... And what could I do to the walls? I don't
know how far one may go with landladies, but I hardly think one could
ask them to repaper walls to each stray lodger's liking."

Miss Bathgate had not so far shown herself much inclined for
conversation. She had met her lodger on the doorstep the night before,
had uttered a few words of greeting, and had then confined herself to
warning the man to watch the walls when he carried up the trunks, and to
wondering aloud what anyone could want with so much luggage, and where
in the world it was to find room. She had been asked to have dinner
ready, and at eight o'clock Pamela had come down to the sitting-room to
find a coarse cloth folded in two and spread on one-half of the round
table. A knife, a fork, a spoon lay on the cloth, flanked on one side by
an enormous cruet and on the other by four large spoons, laid crosswise,
and a thick tumbler. An aspidistra in a pot completed the table
decorations.

The dinner consisted of stewed steak, with turnip and carrots, and a
large dish of potatoes, followed by a rice pudding made without eggs and
a glass dish of prunes.

Pamela was determined to be pleased.

"How _right_ it all is," she told herself--"so entirely in keeping. All
so clean and--and sufficient. I am sure all the things we hang on
ourselves and round ourselves to please and beautify are very