Delight's body lay stretched along the bed, her strong arms thrown out in an attitude of profound relaxation. Her mind, too, was quiet, half drowsing after wearying emotions. She knew that in an hour or two Mrs. Jessop would rap on the door, the signal for her to leave this room forever. . . . Well, she was ready to leave, except for her coat and hat. Her tin trunk, with the basket containing Granny's tea-set standing on top of it, was waiting by the door.
She had not known that she loved this poor room so, but, in truth, it was the one home she had. On the lumpy bed she and May had slept happily together; there May had poured out the story of her love for Albert. In this room she had felt remote and safe as in a little house of her own. It was intolerably stuffy, stained, and faded, but she saw none of this. Her heart enfolded it as the shrine where Gran's tea-set lived, where memories of May abounded. She was like a poor stall animal that clings to its own manger, its halter, its drinking pail, and would rush there gladly after the day's work. It seemed terrible to her, besides, to be thrown out into the street like this, as though she were a bad girl. She never thought of questioning Mrs. Jessop's authority. Mrs. Jessop had engaged her, now if she pleased she could throw her out.
