The mirror was flanked by two small square mahogany boxes, one holding medicines and the other tobacco.  Little mats, some crocheted and some wonderfully composed of differently coloured glass beads, were used to protect the boxes as well as the top of the bureau from being scratched, and on them stood several small groups and figures of porcelain.  One of these was Keith’s special favourite and his first introduction to that world where beauty takes precedence of goodness and truth.  It showed a lady and a gentleman in dresses of a colour and cut wholly unlike anything seen by Keith on the real persons coming within his ken.  They were seated on a richly ornamented sofa before a tea table, and there was something about the manner in which they looked at each other that spoke more loudly than their bright costumes of things lying beyond ordinary existence.

There was also a nice little girl with a doll viewing herself complacently in a real mirror, and a lady in bloomers, apparently of Oriental pattern, who rowed a boat hardly larger than herself, that was raised almost on end by terrific waves.  All three groups had this in common, that when you removed the ornamental upper part, a previously unsuspected inkstand was revealed.  There was a period when Keith seriously believed that all specimens of the keramic art were inkstands in disguise.

Art not represented on the bureau alone, however.  The walls contained a number of steel engravings in gilt frames, quaint old coloured prints, family photographs, and pink-coloured reliefs of various Swedish kings made out of wax and mounted under convex glass panes on highly polished black boards.  But all of those objects were flat and distant and colourless in comparison with the things on the bureau that could be touched as well as seen.  As for the group with the lady and the gentlemen, it had only one rival in the boy’s mind, and that was the big clock in a wooden case that hung on the wall between the windows over the dining table.  The hide-and-seek of the restless pendulum with its shining brass disc was a constant source of fascination in itself, and so were the strange operations performed by the father in front of the clock every Sunday morning, when diversions were particularly welcome on account of the extra restrictions on play.  But its main charm rested in the strangely pleasing sounds it produced every so often, preceded by a funny rattle that warned small folk and big of what was going to happen.  It was Keith’s first acquaintance with music.

The parents’ bed occupied the centre of the right-hand wall, between mamma’s bureau and another chest of drawers known as “Granny’s bureau.”  It was all wood and made in two parts that slid into each other, reducing the daytime width of the bed by one-half.  It stood parallel to the wall, instead of at right angles, and the extension took place sideways.  At night it looked like an ordinary double bed.  In the day it almost disappeared beneath a rectangular pile of bed-clothing, covered by a snow-white spread that was pulled and smoothed and tucked until it hung straight as a wall.