Then the floor had been covered with linoleum on which had stood two hard chairs and an umbrella-stand.
Now there was an oak chest and a gate-table, old brass very well rubbed up, a grandfather clock with a "clear" face, and a polished floor with a Chinese rug on it.
"It is rather dark," said Jean, "but I like it dark.

Coming in on a hot summer day it is almost like a pool; it is so cool and dark and polished." Mr.Reid said nothing, and Jean was torn between a desire to have her home appreciated and a desire to have this stranger take an instant dislike to it, and to leave it speedily and for ever.
"You see," she pointed out, "the little staircase is rather steep and winding, but it is short; and the bedrooms are charming--not very big, but so prettily shaped and with lovely views." Then she remembered that she should miscall rather than praise, and added, "Of course, they have all got queer ceilings; you couldn't expect anything else in a cottage.
Will you go upstairs ?" Mr.Reid thought not, and asked if he might see the sitting-rooms.
"This," said Jean, opening a door, "is the dining-room." It was the room his mother had always sat in, where the horsehair arm-chair had had its home, but it, too, had suffered a change.

Gone was the arm-chair, gone the round table with the crimson cover.

This room had an austerity unknown in the room he remembered.

It was small, and every inch of space was made the most of.