Everything was in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor, not a cupboard or drawer was left open.

The curtains were drawn aside, and through the open window the fresh morning air was streaming in.
Facing the window, and well into the centre of the room, stood a ponderous business-like desk, which looked as if it had seen much service.

On the wall to the left of the desk, reaching almost from floor to ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a woman, magnificently framed, exquisitely painted, and signed with the name of Boucher.

It was Percy's mother.
Marguerite knew very little about her, except that she had died abroad, ailing in body as well as in mind, while Percy was still a lad.

She must have been a very beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and as Marguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but be struck by the extraordinary resemblance which must have existed between mother and son.