The open door revealed a room of singular architectural charm; an oval
room panelled in dark oak, with a stucco ceiling, in free Italianate
design. But within its stately and harmonious walls a single oil lamp, of
the cheapest and commonest pattern, emitting a strong smell of paraffin,
threw its light upon furniture, quite new, that most seaside lodgings
would have disdained; viz., a cheap carpet of a sickly brown, leaving
edges of bare boards between itself and the wainscot; an ugly "suite"
covered with crimson rep, such as only a third-rate shop in a small
provincial town could have provided; with a couple of tables, and a
"chiffonier," of the kind that is hawked on barrows in an East End
street.

Mr. Tyson looked at the room uneasily. He had done his best with the
ridiculous sum provided; but of course it was all wrong.

He passed on silently through a door in the wainscoting of the
drawing-room. The others again followed, Thyrza's mouth twitching with
laughter.

Another large room, almost dark, with a few guttering candles on the
table. Mrs. Dixon went hastily to the fire and stirred it up. Then a
dining-table spread for supper was seen, and a few chairs. Everything
here was as cheap and nasty as in the drawing-room, including the china
and glass on the table.

Thyrza pointed to the ceiling.

"That's a pity howivver!" she said. "Yo' might ha' had it mended up a
bit, Mr. Tyson. Why t' rats will be coomin' through!"