I followed her upstairs and into a little room with a sloping ceiling and a window looking out upon the garden; and at the sight of the neat little place, smelling of lavender, and with some flowers in a jug upon the drawers, the depression which kept haunting me was driven away.
Everything looked attractive—the clean white bed and its dainty hangings, the blue ewer and basin on the washstand, the picture or two on the wall, and the strips of light-coloured carpet on the white floor, all made the place cheerful and did something to recompense me for the trouble of having to leave what seemed to be my regular home, and come from one who had of late been most fatherly and kind, to people who were not likely to care for me at all.
“I think there’s everything you want,” said Mrs Solomon, looking at me curiously. “Soap and towel, and of course you’ve got your hair-brush and things in your box there.”
She pointed at the corded box which stood in front of the table.
“If there’s anything you want you can ask. I hope you’ll be very clean.”
“I’ll try to be, ma’am,” I said, feeling quite uncomfortable, she looked at me so coldly.
“You can use those drawers, and your box can go in the back room. Good-night!”
She went away and shut the door, looking wonderfully clean and prim, but depressing instead of cheering me; and as soon as she was gone I uncorded my box, wondering whether I should be able to stay, and wishing myself back at Isleworth.
I had taken out my clothes and had reached the bottom of my box, anxious to see whether the treasures I had there in a flat case, consisting of pinned-out moths and butterflies, were all right and had not been shaken out of place by the jolting of the cart, when there was a sharp tap at the door and Mr Solomon came in.
“Hullo!” he said; “butterflies and moths!—eh?”