The house in Prince's Gate was well furnished, comfortable, smoothly run by efficient servants, but only a house when all was said.

He felt he would like to creep into The Rigs, into the sitting-room where his mother had always sat (the other larger rooms, the "good room" as it was called, was kept for visitors and high days), and lay his tired body on the horsehair arm-chair by the fireside.

He could rest there, he thought.

It was impossible, of course.

There would be no horsehair arm-chair, for everything had been sold--and there was no mother.
But, anyway, he would go and look at it.