the sort of cushion that resolutely refuses to "give" when one sits
down on it. On the small dressing-table there was no array of glittering
silver bottles, boxes and brushes. A straw flagon of eau-de-Cologne was
Rosamund's sole possession of perfume. She did not own a box of powder
or a puff. But it must be acknowledged that she never looked "shiny."
She had some ivory hair-brushes given to her one Christmas by Bruce
Evelin. Beside them was placed a hideous receptacle for--well, for
anything--pins, perhaps, buttons, small tiresomenesses of that kind.
It was made of some glistening black material, and at its center there
bloomed a fearful red cabbage rose, a rose all vulgarity, ostentation
and importance. This monstrosity had been given to Rosamund as a
thank-offering by a poor charwoman to whom she had been kind. It had
been in constant use now for over three years. The charwoman knew this
with grateful pride.

Upon the mantelpiece there were other gifts of a similar kind: a
photograph frame made of curly shells, a mug with "A present from
Greenwich" written across it in gold letters, a flesh-colored glass
vase with yellow trimmings, a china cow with its vermilion ears cocked
forward, lying down in a green meadow which just held it, and a toy
trombone with a cord and tassels. There were also several photographs of
poor people in their Sunday clothes. On the walls hung a photograph of
Cardinal Newman, a good copy of a Luini Madonna, two drawings of heads
by Burne-Jones, a small painting--signed "G. F. Watts"--of an old tree
trunk around which ivy was lovingly growing, and one or two prints.

The floor was polished and partially covered by three good-sized mats.
There was a writing-table on one side of the room with an ebony-and-gold
crucifix standing upon it. Opposite to it, on the other side of the
room near the fireplace, was a bookcase. On the shelves were volumes of