It was not a room where she had ever slept before on any of her former visits to her father’s home. Charmian had always relegated her to one of the smallest guest rooms on the third floor back whenever she had happened to be in that house for a day or two en route to some other parking place. This room was one of the best guest rooms, and her bags had been dumped here on her arrival the day before the funeral. The bed happened to be made up for a weekend guest whose visit was canceled on account of Charmian’s operation. Christobel did not feel at home in the room, although she admired the beautiful things in it. It seemed even more like a picture room than the rooms downstairs. There were lovely curtains of delicate lacelike frost, with an inner sheath of palest green taffeta, ruffled elaborately. There was a bedspread of green taffeta to match, and the delicate color was carried out with variations of ivory lace in frills and insets in the covers of the bureau, the lamp shades, the light switches, the cover to the dressing table, and the very upholstery of the dressing table bench.
