She played well, for she loved the piano and had a real gift for instrumentation.

Often when she played for her friends, she had to hold herself in consciously, had to play below her ability; for to have allowed herself to play her best might have been to suggest that she was striving to be as good as a professional, and that would have caused comment and been in bad taste.
Her piano was going to be another comfort to her.
She was complacent--even happy--even exultant.

It was all so restful.
And before her were three months--three beautiful months--of this calm, this rest, this security.
At seven o'clock Matilda announced that her dinner was ready, and she swept back into the great dining-room, high-ceilinged, surfaced completely with old paneling of Flemish oak.

The room was dimly illuminated by a single shaded electric bulb.

The other lighting had all been switched off; during the summer the illumination would, of course, have to be unsuspiciously meager.