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It was all exactly as she had imagined it would be. There were the brown walls with the few pictures, the blue drugget on the floor, and the old Persian rugs. There was the “Winged Victory” on its straight pedestal in one corner. There was the dresser against one wall, with the blue dinner service on its shelves. There was the bookcase filled with books, the only reminder of her old life. There was the Chesterfield sofa standing at right angles to the fire-place. There was the corner cupboard, and a small cupboard with glass doors, in which were a few bits of rare old china. There was the easel. There were a few new canvases against the wall. There was a box full of oil paints. There were charcoal sticks in another box—Miss Mason had found that chalk in bottles was not the correct thing nowadays. There was a whole ream of white Michelet paper. There was a sheaf of brushes in a green earthenware jar. There was a large mahogany palette hanging on a nail. It shone smooth and polished like a mirror.