The room he entered had a low sagging ceiling on which shone a low glow of firelight, making colder still the patch of eastern sky beyond the roofs and the cowls and hoods of chimneys framed by the square of the single window. The glow on the ceiling was reflected dully in the old dark mirror over the mantelpiece. An open door in the farther corner, hampered with skirts and blouses, allowed a glimpse of the girl's bedroom.
The young man set the paper bag he carried down on the littered round table and advanced to the girl who sat in an old wicker chair before the fire. The girl did not turn her head as he kissed her cheek, and he looked down at something that had muffled the sound of his steps as he had approached her.
"Hallo, that's new, isn't it, Bessie? Where did that come from?" he asked cheerfully.
The middle of the floor was covered with a common jute matting, but on the hearth was a magnificent leopard-skin rug.
"Mrs. Hepburn sent it up. There was a draught from under the door. It's much warmer for my feet."
"Very kind of Mrs. Hepburn. Well, how are you feeling to-day, old girl?"
"Better, thanks, Ed."
"That's the style. You'll be yourself again soon. Daisy says you've been out to-day?"
"Yes, I went for a walk. But not far; I went to the Museum and then sat down. You're early, aren't you?"
He turned away to get a chair, from which he had to move a mass of tissue-paper patterns and buckram linings. He brought it to the rug.