There was the large cheval glass in her bedroom. It was curious that she should think first of this. It was one of a large quantity of toilet furniture that she had bought when she first came to “Elm Cottage.” It was a beautiful thing, exquisitely bevelled and lacquered, and framed in carved ebony, She had liked it because she could stand in front of it in evening dress and criticise the whole poise and pose of herself. She had been accustomed to let down her hair in front of it at night and admire the red lustre reflected in the glass. Hours she must have spent posing in front of it. And yet now, when she contemplated selling, this was the first thing she thought of.... Curious! ... The fact was, she was getting old. Or so she felt and thought. Her hair was becoming dull and opaque; there were hard lines about her eyes and forehead. Never beautiful, she was now losing even that strange magnetic attractiveness which before had sufficed for beauty. So the cheval glass which reminded her of it could go.... She called at Trussall’s, the second-hand dealers in the Bockley High Road, and told them about it. They offered to send up a man to inspect it and make an offer. Catherine, too, thought this would be the best plan. When she arrived back at “Elm Cottage” she diligently polished the ebony frame and rubbed the mirror till it seemed the loveliest thing in the room. She even rearranged the other furniture so that the cheval glass should occupy the position of honour. The man came--a gaunt little snap-voiced man in a trilby hat. Did he fail to notice how the lawn was growing lank and weedy, the flower-beds covered with long grass, the trellis work on the pergola rotting and fallen? He tapped the mirror in a business-like fashion with his nail and examined cursorily the carving. “H’m,” he said meditatively. “We’ll offer you five pounds for it.” Catherine flushed with shame. “Why,” she cried shrilly, “I paid forty guineas for it, and it was priced at more than that!” He coughed deprecatingly. “I’m afraid we couldn’t go beyond five, ma’am.” If he had not been slightly impressed by the vehemence of her protest he would have added: “Take it or leave it!” “Come downstairs,” she commanded, “I want you to value a few things for me.” The fact was that she was prepared to be ironically entertained by the niggardly sums he offered. She brought him to the piano. “Here,” she said, “a Steinway baby grand, splendid tone, good as new, fine rosewood frame; what’ll you offer for that?” He thumped the chord of A major. “Sixty,” he replied. “Sixty what?” “Pounds ... might go to guineas.” “Look here, do you know I paid a hundred and twenty guineas less than twelve months ago for it?” “All I know, ma’am, is it ain’t worth more than sixty to me.” “But it’s practically new!”