On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.
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