The circular rosewood table that occupied the centre of the room had on it a posy of shell-flowers under a glass bell; and mats of coloured wool and steel beads――these latter somewhat rusted――were dispersed over the table to receive nothing in particular. A few books radiated from the bunch of shell flowers, selected to lie on the table, not on account of their contents, but because of the gilding on their covers. The chairs in the room also radiated from the posy at set intervals. The fire was laid, but not lighted. The fire-irons were highly polished, but apparently never used. In a dark nook lurked a meagre little poker of black iron that was employed when the fire was alight and needed stirring. The blinds were drawn when Mrs. Jose and Winefred entered, but the maid drew them up partially, not wholly, lest too much light should enter and take some of the dye out of the dismal curtains. The carpet, recently relaid after cleaning, represented sprays of seaweed floating on the surface of the bottle-green deep among sprigs of coral forming rococo octagons. Mrs. Jose seated herself timorously at the edge of a chair, and looked around her with an expression of mingled awe and pride. Presently she pointed at the shell flowers, and said with bated breath, 'Wonderful, are they not? That I call a real work of art. Must have cost pounds. Just fancy, all shells, not real flowers. Tell me, dear, do I look very hot?' Satisfied that she was not overheated, Mrs. Jose's eyes rambled about the room, then fell on the floor. 'My dear, never before have I seen the carpet without a drugget over it. Wonderful, is it not? It really makes one feel as if one must either dislocate one's ankle or plunge knee-deep in the ocean walking over it. That is high art. Is the bow under my chin pulled out properly? Hush! I hear them coming.' The heightened colour left her cheek. But no――none arrived. It comported with the dignity of the family not to exhibit over cordiality in the reception of a relative of an inferior social stage. 'My dear!' in a whisper, 'when Mrs. Tomkin-Jones comes, if she graciously speaks to you, answer with a ma'am just once, or perhaps twice. Not too many ma'ams, or she will think you have been in a shop. You understand?' The house, opening into the street, but pretending to belong to the square, was perhaps typical of the Tomkin-Jones family. That family affected to belong to a social order above that to which it actually pertained. But in this it was not peculiar. With few exceptions most people aim at appearing, socially or morally, what they are not. And it is well that they should do so, for it is precisely this straining upward after something higher which is the motive principle of civilisation. Through ten thousand ages the negro never felt this, and therefore remained where he was when first planted in Africa.