ses were not urns, they were of marble and in their places.

"How do you like it in this phase?" Gwendolen asked him, tactfully
turning from the question of his weakness. "I love it myself, I own,
though of course Chislebridge thinks I've lost my wits. To tell you the
truth, Owen, I was tired of beauty. One may come to that. One may feel,"
said Gwendolen, pouring out the tea, "that one needs a discipline. This
room is my discipline, and after it I know that I shall find
self-indulgence almost vulgar."

No; his mind was working to and fro between the present and the past
with the rapidity and accuracy of a shuttle threading an intricate
pattern--no, he had never mentioned to Gwendolen that late autumnal
visit of his to Chislebridge eighteen months ago. Had that been because
to mention it and the transformation he had been the first to witness in
Mrs. Waterlow's drawing-room would have been, in a sense, to give
Gwendolen a warning? And had he not, in his deepening affection for her,
conceived her to be above the need of such warnings? Yes; for though he
had been glad to recover his ideal of young Mrs. Waterlow, though he had
been more than willing that Gwendolen should occupy the slightly
ridiculous and humiliating position that he had imagined to be Mrs.
Waterlow's, he had never for a moment imagined that Gwendolen's
disingenuous docility would go as far as this. So many people might love
red lacquer and old glass with a clear conscience, once they had been
brought to see them; but who, with a clear conscience, could love black
satin furniture and marble vases?

"It is a very singular room," he found at last, in comment upon her
information. "How--and when--did you come to think of it?" He heard the
hollow sound of his own voice; but Gwendolen remained unaware. The fact
of her stupidity cast a merciful veil of pitifulness over her.

"I hardly know," she said, handing him his tea and happy in her theme.
"These things are in the air at a given time--reactions, repulsions,
wearinesses--I think. It grew bit by bit; I've brought it to this state
only since my return from the Riviera. The idea came to me, oh, long
ago--long before your illness. Alec Chambers is perfectly entranced with
it, and vows it is the most beautiful--yes, beautiful--room in
existence. It is witty as well as beautiful, he says, and he is going to
paint it for the New English Art Club. Rooms have a curious influence
upon me, you know, Owen. I really do