bedstead and a worm-eaten wardrobe kept each other company as the only furniture in the place. It was a room fit only for a servant—she had never desired to better her lot, content to find her only wealth in being the mother of her Paul.
Then she went into his room with its white walls and the narrow virginal bed. This chamber had once been kept as simple and tidy as that of a girl; he had loved quiet, silence, order, and always had flowers upon his little writing-table in front of the window. But latterly he had not cared about anything: he had left his drawers and cupboards open and his books littered about on the chairs or even on the floor.
The water in which he had washed before going out exaled a strong scent of roses: a coat had been flung off carelessly and lay on the floor like a prostrate shadow of himself. That sight and that scent roused the mother from her preoccupation: she picked up the coat and thought scornfully that she would be strong enough even to pick up her son himself.
35
