A piece of furniture for which she knew no name, an evidence of long-established wealth and old-fashioned luxury, of which she and her plain folk, with their secretaries and desks and bureaus, had known nothing.

The clock had stopped at three o'clock.

Mrs.Field thought to herself that it might have been the hour on which old Mr.Maxwell died, reflecting that souls were more apt to pass away in the wane of the night.

She would have like to wind the clock, and set the hands moving past that ghostly hour, but she did not dare to stir.

She gazed at the large, dull figures sprawling over the old carpet, at the glimmering satiny scrolls on the wall-paper.