The woman had a face like wood. Two of the big footmen brought in our little trunk. I got out Bettina's dressing-gown and slippers, and asked the wooden woman to take them to my sister. I was so tired with all the excitement that I went to sleep on the pink satin sofa. The wooden woman waked me. "Time to dress," she said, and she had the bath ready. I looked round for our little trunk. "Oh, you couldn't have a thing like that standing about in here," the wooden woman said. And, indeed, I had felt, as I saw it coming in, how out of keeping its shabbiness was with all the satin damask, the gilding, and the lace. She had done the unpacking, the wooden woman said. And there were my white satin frock and silk stockings on the bed. "But half the things in the trunk are my sister's," I said. She had taken the other young lady what was needed, the woman answered. And whatever I wanted I was to ring for. I felt that this was no doubt the way of London ladies. But I longed for our shabby little trunk. It seemed the last link with home. I looked round the beautiful room with a sense of distaste. This feeling must be the homesickness I had read about. I went to the window. The lines that divided the long panes into panels, the lines that I had thought of as purely decorative were rods of iron. "You'll be late," the wooden woman said, and she drew the silk curtains over the lace ones, and switched on the electric light. She came back while I was brushing my hair. She offered to do it for me. I was so glad to be able to do it myself. I would not have liked her to touch me. I hurried with my dressing so that I could go to Bettina. The woman tried to prevent me. But I was firm. "Show me the way, will you? Or shall I ask someone else?" She hesitated, and then seemed to think she had best do as she was told. Half-way down a long, soft-carpeted passage she asked me to wait an instant. She knocked at one of the many doors. I heard my aunt's voice inside. And whispering. Only one of the electric lights was turned on here, in the corridor. The air was heavy. The "Aunt Josephine" scent, foreign, dizzily sweet, was everywhere. A light-headed feeling came over me. I longed for an open window. They must all be shut as well as curtained. Between the many doors, paintings were hung. I had been vaguely conscious of these as we came up. I saw now they were pictures of women. Most of them seemed to be in different stages of the bath. One was asleep in a strange position, with nothing on. I was going past that one when I noticed the opposite door ajar. I stopped and listened. "Bettina," I said softly.