It was not home.

Meanwhile she arranged her ornaments in the room which she had won too easily.

They were strange ornaments to bring on a sea voyage--china pugs, tea-sets in miniature, cups stamped floridly with the arms of the city of Bristol, hair-pin boxes crusted with shamrock, antelopes' heads in coloured plaster, together with a multitude of tiny photographs, representing downright workmen in their Sunday best, and women holding white babies.

But there was one portrait in a gilt frame, for which a nail was needed, and before she sought it Mrs.Chailey put on her spectacles and read what was written on a slip of paper at the back: "This picture of her mistress is given to Emma Chailey by Willoughby Vinrace in gratitude for thirty years of devoted service." Tears obliterated the words and the head of the nail.
"So long as I can do something for your family," she was saying, as she hammered at it, when a voice called melodiously in the passage: "Mrs.Chailey! Mrs.Chailey!" Chailey instantly tidied her dress, composed her face, and opened the door.
"I'm in a fix," said Mrs.Ambrose, who was flushed and out of breath.
"You know what gentlemen are.

The chairs too high--the tables too low--there's six inches between the floor and the door.