faded sheaves of wheat and wreaths of flowers. She took out her notebook and wrote:
"Aubosson—Aubuson—Aubousson—Aubusson—???—carpet."
Two corner cabinets held jade trees, with red coral fruits and moon-white mother-of-pearl blossoms, widespread or in cuplike bud. "Chinese cabinets speaking of junk-filled seas," she wrote, and, thinking, I want to make it kind of quaint, like her own writing, added, "Every soft chair seemed to say, do sit in my lap."
Violets all round, bowlfuls! Irma was used to a bunch of them, with stems in green foil and an edging of those other leaves, the hard shiny ones that kept, not masses like these, bowls and bowls of them.
Some books on a low table. O Fair Dove, bound in green morocco; the English edition of Fly in Amber; Fleur d'Oeillet, par Christabel CaineBells of the Temple, by Geoffrey Strade. She opened that one. Young Mr. Strade looked at her sternly from the frontis
