Poppy's canary in the window, in a cage hung with yellow gauze.

Poppy's mandoline in an easy chair by itself.
Poppy's hat on the grand piano, tumbling head over heels among a litter of coffee cups.

On the tea-table a pair of shoes that could have belonged to nobody but Poppy, they were so diminutive.

In the waste paper basket a bouquet that must have been Poppy's too, it was so enormous.

And on the table in the window a Japanese flower-bowl that served as a handy receptacle for cigarette ash and spent vestas.
Two immense mirrors facing each other reflected these objects and Poppy, when she was there, for ever and ever, in diminishing perspective.