She dusted the black walnut centre table which was of Ina's choosing,
and looked like Ina, shining, complacent, abundantly curved. The leather
rocker, too, looked like Ina, brown, plumply upholstered, tipping back a
bit. Really, the davenport looked like Ina, for its chintz pattern
seemed to bear a design of lifted eyebrows and arch, reproachful eyes.

Lulu dusted the upright piano, and that was like Dwight--in a perpetual
attitude of rearing back, with paws out, playful, but capable, too, of
roaring a ready bass.

And the black fireplace--there was Mrs. Bett to the life. Colourless,
fireless, and with a dust of ashes.

In the midst of all was Lulu herself reflected in the narrow pier
glass, bodiless-looking in her blue gingham gown, but somehow alive.
Natural.

This pier glass Lulu approached with expectation, not because of herself
but because of the photograph on its low marble shelf. A large
photograph on a little shelf-easel. A photograph of a man with evident
eyes, evident lips, evident cheeks--and each of the six were rounded and
convex. You could construct the rest of him. Down there under the glass
you could imagine him extending, rounded and convex, with plump hands
and curly thumbs and snug clothes. It was Ninian Deacon, Dwight's
brother.

Every day since his coming had been announced Lulu, dusting the parlour,
had seen the photograph looking at her with its eyes somehow new. Or
were her own eyes new? She dusted this photograph with a difference,