When Ida went upstairs for the wash, the need for which Miss Isabel had

so kindly informed her of, she found that her room was clean and fairly

comfortable, though its appearance seemed strange after the huge and

old-fashioned one at the Hall. The furniture was cheap and

unsubstantial, the towels were small and thin; in place of pictures,

aggressively illuminated texts scarred the walls like freshly made

wounds, and the place had a bare, homeless look which made Ida shudder.

The dining-room, when she went down to it, did not impress her any more

favourably; for here, too, the furniture was new and shiny with a

sticky kind of shininess, as if the treacly varnish had not yet dried;

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there was not a comfortable chair in the room; the pictures were the

most gruesome ones of Doré's, and there was a text over the

mantel-piece as aggressive and as hideous in colouring as those in her

room. A lukewarm leg of mutton, very underdone, was on the table, the

cloth of which was by no means clean; the dishes, which contained quite

cold vegetables, were cracked and did not match; the bread was of the

commonest kind, that which is called "household;" the knives were badly

cleaned, and the plate was worn off the forks and spoons. It was

considered inelegant to have gas in the dining-room, therefore a cheap

paraffin-lamp was in the centre of the table, and was more liberal of

scent than light. The curtains to the window were of that annoying red

which shrieks down any other colour near it; they made Ida's tired eyes

ache.

While she was trying to eat the slice of gory mutton, Mrs. Heron and

Isabel watched her, as if she were some aboriginal from a wild and

distant country, and they shot glances at each other, uneasy,

half-jealous, half-envious glances, as they noted the beauty of the

face, and the grace of the figure in its black dress, which, plain as

it was, seemed to make theirs still more dowdy and vulgar. In the midst

of this lugubrious account of the annoyances and worries of the

journey, Mr. Heron broke off to ask: "Where is Joseph? He is late to-night."

"He is kept at the office," replied his mother. "Poor boy! I hope he is

not working too hard; he has been kept nearly every night this week."

Isabel smiled at Ida, for what reason Ida could not guess; and while

she was wondering, there came a knock at the outer door, and presently

Joseph entered.

He was an unprepossessing young man with small eyes and thick lips,

over which it would have been wise of him to wear a big moustache; but

it was the fashion in the city to be clean-shaven, and Mr. Joseph

considered himself the pink of fashion. His clothes fitted him too

tightly, he wore cheap neckties, and ready-made boots, of course, of

patent leather. His dark hair was plastered on the low, retreating

forehead; his face was flushed instead of being, as one would expect,

pale from overwork.




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