One by one， as the characters of a cryptograph becomeexplicit， the little signs left by the furnished room’sprocession of guests developed a significance. Thethreadbare space in the rug in front of the dresser toldthat lovely woman had marched in the throng. Tiny fingerprints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to feeltheir way to sun and air. A splattered stain， raying like theshadow of a bursting bomb， witnessed where a hurled glassor bottle had splintered with its contents against the wall.
Across the pier glass had been scrawled with a diamondin staggering letters the name “Marie.” It seemed that thesuccession of dwellers in the furnished room had turnedin fury—perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by itsgarish coldness—and wreaked upon it their passions. Thefurniture was chipped and bruised； the couch， distortedby bursting springs， seemed a horrible monster that hadbeen slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion.
Some more potent upheaval had cloven a great slice fromthe marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned itsparticular cant and shriek as from a separate and individualagony. It seemed incredible that all this malice and injuryhad been wrought upon the room by those who had calledit for a time their home； and yet it may have been thecheated home instinct surviving blindly， the resentful rageat false household gods that had kindled their wrath. Ahut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish.
The young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts tofile， soft-shod， through his mind， while there drifted intothe room furnished sounds and furnished scents. He heardin one room a tittering and incontinent， slack laughter；in others the monologue of a scold， the rattling of dice，a lullaby， and one crying dully； above him a banjo tinkledwith spirit. Doors banged somewhere； the elevated trainsroared intermittently； a cat yowled miserably upon a backfence. And he breathed the breath of the house—a danksavour rather than a smell—a cold， musty effluvium as fromunderground vaults mingled with the reeking exhalations oflinoleum and mildewed and rotten woodwork.
Then， suddenly， as he rested there， the room was filledwith the strong， sweet odour of mignonette. It cameas upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness andfragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a livingvisitant. And the man cried aloud： “What， dear？” as if hehad been called， and sprang up and faced about. The richodour clung to him and wrapped him around. He reachedout his arms for it， all his senses for the time confused andcommingled. How could one be peremptorily called by anodour？ Surely it must have been a sound. But， was it notthe sound that had touched， that had caressed him？
“She has been in this room，” he cried， and he sprang towrest from it a token， for he knew he would recognize thesmallest thing that had belonged to her or that she hadtouched. This enveloping scent of mignonette， the odourthat she had loved and made her own—whence came it？
The room had been but carelessly set in order. Scatteredupon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins—those discreet， indistinguishable friends of womankind，feminine of gender， infinite of mood and uncommunicativeof tense. These he ignored， conscious of their triumphantlack of identity. Ransacking the drawers of the dresserhe came upon a discarded， tiny， ragged handkerchief.
He pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent withheliotrope； he hurled it to the floor. In another drawer hefound odd buttons， a theatre programme， a pawnbroker’scard， two lost marshmallows， a book on the divinationof dreams. In the last was a woman’s black satin hairbow， which halted him， poised between ice and fire. Butthe black satin hair-bow also is femininity’s demure，impersonal， common ornament， and tells no tales.