She stopped before a closed door. "What is this?"
Miss Ellis was walking past it. "That's my room."
"Well, may I see it?"
"Oh," she said, colorlessly, "I didn't suppose you'd want to fix it over...." She opened the door and stepped in, crossing to the undraped window and running up the stiff shade of faded and streaked olive green.
"But of course I shall," said Jane, following her in. "Well—I might have known!"
"What?" asked Miss Ellis, defensively.
"That you'd take the smallest and shabbiest room in the house for yourself."
"Oh, well ... it doesn't matter. I'm not in it very much." She walked over to the warped golden oak bureau and straightened the metal button hook with the name of a shoe shop pressed into it into line with the whisk broom. Besides these two articles there bloomed upon the bureau's top a small pincushion made from a piece of California redwood bark, and a widowed saucer enrolled as a pin-tray, and into the frame of the mirror was stuck a snapshot of an unnecessarily plain small boy.
"That's my little nephew," said Emma Ellis, seeing Jane's eye upon it. "My sister Bertha's boy."
"He—he looks bright, doesn't he?" said Jane, hastily. She looked about her, consideringly. "You know, I'd like to do this room in deep creamy yellow. That will make it look lighter and seem larger, and it will be nice with your hair."