The furnished room received its latest guest with a first glow of pseudo-hospitality, a hectic, haggard, perfunctory welcome like the specious smile of a demirep.  The sophistical comfort came in reflected gleams from the decayed furniture, the ragged brocade upholstery of a couch and two chairs, a foot-wide cheap pier glass between the two windows, from one or two gilt picture frames and a brass bedstead in a corner.

The guest reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, confused in speech as though it were an apartment in Babel, tried to discourse to him of its divers tenantry.

A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-flowered rectangular, tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting.  Upon the gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the homeless one from house to house—­The Huguenot Lovers, The First Quarrel, The Wedding Breakfast, Psyche at the Fountain.  The mantel’s chastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behind some pert drapery drawn rakishly askew like the sashes of the Amazonian ballet.  Upon it was some desolate flotsam cast aside by the room’s marooned when a lucky sail had borne them to a fresh port—­a trifling vase or two, pictures of actresses, a medicine bottle, some stray cards out of a deck.

One by one, as the characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the little signs left by the furnished room’s procession of guests developed a significance.  The threadbare space in the rug in front of the dresser told that lovely woman had marched in the throng.  Tiny finger prints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to feel their way to sun and air.  A splattered stain, raying like the shadow of a bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle had splintered with its contents against the wall.  Across the pier glass had been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the name “Marie.”  It seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished room had turned in fury—­perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by its garish coldness—­and wreaked upon it their passions.  The furniture was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion.  Some more potent upheaval had cloven a great slice from the marble mantel.  Each plank in the floor owned its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony.  It seemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time their home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the resentful rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath.  A hut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish.