The first object that I noticed was his dressing-case, open on
the toilet-table.

I took out the bottles and pots and brushes and combs, the knives
and scissors in one compartment, the writing materials in
another. I smelled the perfumes and pomatums; I busily cleaned
and dusted the bottles with my handkerchief as I took them out.
Little by little I completely emptied the dressing-case. It was
lined with blue velvet. In one corner I noticed a tiny slip of
loose blue silk. Taking it between my finger and thumb, and
drawing it upward, I discovered that there was a false bottom to
the case, forming a secret compartment for letters and papers. In
my strange condition--capricious, idle, inquisitive--it was an
amusement to me to take out the papers, just as I had taken out
everything else .

I found some receipted bills, which failed to interest me; some
letters, which it is needless to say I laid aside after only
looking at the addresses; and, under all, a photograph, face
downward, with writing on the back of it. I looked at the
writing, and saw these words:

"To my dear son, Eustace."

His mother! the woman who had so obstinately and mercilessly
opposed herself to our marriage!

I eagerly turned the photograph, expecting to see a woman with a
stern, ill-tempered, forbidding countenance. To my surprise, the