WHEN the purchases from the Oriental department were finally arranged, Pamela retreated to the door of the keeping-room--the drawing-room as she had privately determined to call it--and shut her eyes; then, opening them quickly and glancing comprehensively round, she tried to imagine what the effect of the room would be on a stranger. The round walnut table was pushed into a corner and covered with a red and yellow cloth, on which storks were painted. The piano cut across a corner, and had its back draped. The brackets were fixed on the wall and upheld Kaga plates. The mandarin’s petticoat, that had cost a great deal, nearly covered the green chair, and the green sofa was piled with cushions. The gaudy rugs did their best to cover up the bunches of pink Provence roses on the carpet. Things really made a very good show. The place looked almost civilized. These were her complacent thoughts as she stood at the door with her head on one side. Instinctively she went upstairs and put on her best gown, and arranged her hair in the elaborate way which she reserved for special occasions. When she came downstairs she shut her eyes again, then opened them spasmodically. Yes, it would do. She felt quite excited. Anyone could see that the hand of a person of taste had touched everything. A feeling of towns came over her. She looked through the diamond panes of the long window as if she expected to see hansoms bowling along the road. Then she sighed and glanced in the mirror again. What was the good of dressing one’s hair and wearing one’s best gown? Nobody would call. Gainah was still in the kitchen. She could hear her grating voice and slow step. Jethro was tramping over the stubble, his Irish terrier, Rob, at his heels. She put her softly-puffed head out of the bay window and called out pleadingly: “Oh! do come in and look.” He came across the field--came tolerantly, leisurely, as if he were good-humoredly indulging the whim of a child. When he opened the door he seemed too heavy for the transformed room, with its elegant tags of foreign frippery. He seemed to put it to shame; he brought an intangible, sterling feeling with him. Pamela, without knowing why, felt a little less satisfied. “Do you like it?” she asked nervously. He dropped into the green chair, his broad hands gripped round the petticoat, and looked about him with amusement. “Everything’s crooked,” he said lazily, at last, his mouth drolly curved and his eyes merry. They were such keen, outdoor eyes; they seemed to pierce through shams. She was afraid that he saw the pins in the piano back. She had been obliged to join two lengths of silk together, and had been too eager to stay and sew it. “Yes, everything is crooked; that is one of the fundamental rules of modern decoration,” she told him flippantly. “Piano across one corner, table across the other; nothing stiff, nothing solid.” “Umph!”