re,
clean grey; instead of a satin coverlet a patchwork quilt covered the
fluted bed; no scented glass and ivory and silver-stoppered armoury of
beauty crowded the dressing-table, only a plain brush and comb such as
one might see in some servant's quarters; the beautiful grained
wardrobe's doors, carelessly ajar, spilled no foam and froth of lace
and ribbon and silk stocking: only a beggarly handful of clean,
well-worn print gowns hung from the shining pegs. A battered tin bath
and water-can stood beneath the window, and on a graceful cushioned
_prie-dieu_ instead of a missal lay--of all things--a mouse trap.

I have never in my life stood in a room so contradictory, so utterly
unrelated to its supposed intention. Occupied it certainly was: towels
and soap and sponge, and nightgown neatly folded on the patchwork
quilt, showed that. But of all teasing suggestion of femininity, all
the whimsical, rosy privacy of a girl's bedchamber, all the dainty
nonsense and pretty purity, half artless, half artful, with which
romance has invested this retreat and poetry and song have serenaded
it, Margarita's apartment was entirely void. Even its spotlessness was
not remarkable in a house so noticeable everywhere for this quality,
and as for personality, a nun's cell has more. I think that its utter
scentlessness added to the peculiar impression; there was not a
suggestion of this feminine allurement; not even the homely lavender
or the reminiscent dried roses hinted at the most matter-of-fact
housewife's concession to her sex.

And yet it had its own charm, this strange room, a peculiar French
quality, provided, perhaps, by the mingling of yellow furniture and
soft grey wall spaces; and a quaint atmosphere of something once alive
and breathing and daintily fleshly, cooled and faded and chastened by
inexorable time....

I slept that night in the room with the etching (the silver bowl was
filled with marigolds) and all night I heard the roar of the surf and
the hiss of the breaking waves through my busy dreams.

I woke into a clear storm-swept morning, just after the dawn, very
suddenly, and with no apparent reason for the waking. That is to say,
I thought I woke, but knew instantly that it must be a very pleasant
and odd species of dream, for there in the quiet light, at the foot of
my bed--quite on it, in fact--sat Margarita. She smiled placidly,
classic in her long white nightgown, and I smiled placidly back as one
does in dream