room Mr. Pepper and Mr. Ambrose were oblivious of all tumult; they were
in Cambridge, and it was probably about the year 1875.

"They're old friends," said Helen, smiling at the sight. "Now, is there
a room for us to sit in?"

Rachel opened a door.

"It's more like a landing than a room," she said. Indeed it had nothing
of the shut stationary character of a room on shore. A table was rooted
in the middle, and seats were stuck to the sides. Happily the tropical
suns had bleached the tapestries to a faded blue-green colour, and the
mirror with its frame of shells, the work of the steward's love, when
the time hung heavy in the southern seas, was quaint rather than
ugly. Twisted shells with red lips like unicorn's horns ornamented
the mantelpiece, which was draped by a pall of purple plush from which
depended a certain number of balls. Two windows opened on to the deck,
and the light beating through them when the ship was roasted on the
Amazons had turned the prints on the opposite wall to a faint yellow
colour, so that "The Coliseum" was scarcely to be distinguished from
Queen Alexandra playing with her Spaniels. A pair of wicker arm-chairs
by the fireside invited one to warm one's hands at a grate full of gilt
shavings; a great lamp swung above the table--the kind of lamp which
makes the light of civilisation across dark fields to one walking in the
country.

"It's odd that every one should be an old friend of Mr. Pepper's,"
Rachel started nervously, for the situation was difficult, the room
cold, and Helen curiously silent.