"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy."

"Uncle William's there."

"Never mind that. They're your own things now."

Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left
the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short
a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him.
It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy.
But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the
landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his
mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately
upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and
listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that
it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat
uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the
handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from
hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold
for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened
now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were
drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark.
On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a
little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the
chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when
his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something
curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were
going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a
night-dress.