One narrow bed, a chair, and a small washstand, was all the furniture it boasted of, and a few old cuttings of an antiquated illustrated paper pinned on to the wall afforded its sole decoration.
A low, dreary whistle escaped from Horace's lips as he surveyed his new quarters, followed almost immediately by an equally dreary laugh.
"Why," gasped he, "there's no looking-glass! However is Reg to shave ?" It was an heroic effort, and it succeeded.

Mrs Cruden's face lit up at the sound of her son's voice with its old sunshine, and even Reginald smiled grimly.
"I must let my beard grow," said he.

"But, mother, I say," and his voice quavered as he spoke, "what a miserable room yours is! I can't bear to think of your being cooped up there." "Oh, it's not so bad," said Mrs Cruden, cheerily.

"The pink in the chintz doesn't go well with the scarlet in the wall-paper, certainly, but I dare say I shall sleep soundly in the bed all the same." "But such a wretched look-out from the window, mother, and such a _vile_ jug and basin!" Mrs Cruden laughed.
"Never mind about the jug and basin," said she, "as long as they hold water; and as for the look-out--well, as long as I can see my two boys' faces happy, that's the best view I covet." "You never think about yourself," said Reginald, sadly.
"I say, mother," said Horace, "suppose we call up the spirits from the vasty deep and ask them to get tea ready." This practical suggestion met with general approbation, and the little party returned more cheerily to the parlour, where Horace performed marvellous exploits with the bell-handle, and succeeded, in the incredible time of seven minutes, in bringing up a small slipshod girl, who, after a good deal of staring about her, and a critical survey of the pattern of Mrs Cruden's dress, contrived to gather a general idea of what was required of her.
It was a queer meal, half ludicrous, half despairing, that first little tea-party in Dull Street.

They tried to be gay.