She brought it to the bed: It was about eight inches square and three inches in depth, and beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a design to resemble a bunch of roses—just such a little cabinet as our grandmothers valued, such as was scorned as being Early Victorian during the aesthetic movement of the eighties and nineties, but such as we ourselves are beginning to recognize as beautiful. It had prominent brass hinges, and a keyhole, and it was locked.
“Do you want me to open it? It’s locked.”
The eyes were moderately still.
“Then you wish it put somewhere else?”
They blinked.
“In a drawer?”
No response.
“On the dressing-table?”
No response.
“Near you?”