sweet things as soon as the midday dinner was over on Sunday.  Sometimes they would drop in to see Mrs. Carr just before supper was ready, and then they would pretend that they lived on tea and toast because they were naturally “light eaters,” and that they sewed all day, not for the money, but because they liked to have “something to do with their hands” They were tall thin women in organdie caps and black alpaca dresses made with long basques which showed a greenish cast in the daylight.  The walls of their rooms were covered with family portraits of the colonial period, and Mrs. Carr, who had parted with most of her treasures, often wondered how they had preserved so many proofs of a distinguished descent.  Even her silver had gone—­first the quaint old service with the Bolton crest, which had belonged to her mother; then, one by one, the forks and spoons; and, last of all, Gabriella’s silver mug, which was carried, wrapped in a shawl, to the shop of old Mr. Camberwell.  She was a woman who loved inanimate things with the passion which other women give only to children, and a thousand delicate fibres of sentiment knit her soul to the portraits on the wall, to the furniture with which she lived, to the silver and glass that had once belonged to her mother.  When one after one these things went from her, she felt as if the very roots of her being were torn up from the warm familiar earth in which they had grown.  “There’s nothing left in the parlour that I shouldn’t be ashamed to have your grandmother look at,” she had once confessed to her daughters.

Seen by the light of history, this parlour, in which so much of Gabriella’s childhood was spent, was not without interest as an archaic survival of the fundamental errors of the mid-Victorian mind.  The walls were covered with bottle-green paper on which endless processions of dwarfed blue peacocks marched relentlessly toward an embossed border—­the result of an artistic frenzy of the early ’eighties.  Neither Mrs. Carr nor Jimmy Wrenn, who paid the rent, had chosen this paper, but having been left on the dealer’s hands, it had come under the eye of the landlord, who, since he did not have to live with it had secured it at a bargain.  Too unused to remonstrance to make it effective, Mrs. Carr had suffered the offending decoration in meekness, while Jimmy, having a taste for embossment, honestly regarded the peacocks as “handsome.”  From the centre of the ceiling a massive gilt chandelier, elaborately festooned with damaged garlands, shed, when it was lighted, a dim and troubled gloom down on the threadbare Axminster carpet.  Above the white marble mantelpiece, the old French mirror, one of the few good things left over from a public sale of Mrs. Carr’s possessions, reflected a pair of bronze candelabra with crystal pendants, and a mahogany clock, which had kept excellent time for half a century and then had stopped suddenly one day while Marthy was cleaning.  In the corner, between the door and the window, there was a rosewood