"What an extraordinary young woman!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Is there any reason for her being quite so rude to me?"
"None that I can conceive," he answered. "She is always like that."
"And yet you took an interest in her!"
"Why not? She is human, soured by misfortune, if you like, with an immense stock of bravery and honesty underneath it all. She has had a drunken father practically upon her hands, and life's been pretty sordid for her. Here we are."
He fitted the key into the lock and swung the door open. The clear afternoon light shone in upon the little shabby room and its worn furniture. There were one or two insignificant belongings of Philip's still lying about the place, and on the writing-table, exactly opposite the spot where he used to sit, a little blue vase, in which was a bunch of violets. Somehow or other it was the one arresting object in the room. They both of them looked at it in equal amazement.
"Is any one living here?" Elizabeth enquired.
"Not to my knowledge," he replied. "No one could take it on without my signing a release."
They moved over to the desk. Elizabeth stooped down and smelt the violets, lifted them up and looked at the cut stalks.
"Is this where you used to sit and write?" she asked.
He nodded.