The wooden woman waked me.
"Time to dress," she said, and she had the bath ready. I looked round for our little trunk.
"Oh, you couldn't have a thing like that standing about in here," the wooden woman said.
And, indeed, I had felt, as I saw it coming in, how out of keeping its shabbiness was with all the satin damask, the gilding, and the lace.
She had done the unpacking, the wooden woman said. And there were my white satin frock and silk stockings on the bed. "But half the things in the trunk are my sister's," I said.
She had taken the other young lady what was needed, the woman answered. And whatever I wanted I was to ring for.
I felt that this was no doubt the way of London ladies. But I longed for our shabby little trunk. It seemed the last link with home. I looked round the beautiful room with a sense of distaste.
This feeling must be the homesickness I had read about.
I went to the window. The lines that divided the long panes into panels, the lines that I had thought of as purely decorative were rods of iron.
"You'll be late," the wooden woman said, and she drew the silk curtains over the lace ones, and switched on the electric light.