She would not have believed that so soon after Jean’s death she could find herself settling back into a routined life. At first there had been the long, empty days and the longer nights when the house seemed a vast, empty place from which the spirit or thing or whatever it might be called which had made it different from other places had fled. But Mrs. Daquin had removed most of the things which too vividly brought back memories of Jean.
“There’s no use of keeping things that only make you sad,” she had said. “I get the creeps every time I go to see Mrs. Simpkins—those dried flowers from her husband’s funeral hanging in the frame in her parlour. There’ll be nothing like that around here—a dead person’s dead and you can’t bring him back, no matter how much you loved him.”
At first Mimi had objected strenuously to Mrs. Daquin’s seemingly ruthless disposal of all the things which to her were so intimately associated with Jean. They had, however, brought little furniture from New Orleans, only Jean’s books and a few odds and ends. These latter Mimi removed to her own room and then she willingly consented to whatever changes her stepmother desired. A new parlour set was purchased as soon after the funeral as was decently possible. New wallpaper appeared in the long dark hall and in Mrs. Daquin’s bedroom. Out, too, went the bedroom furniture of mottled walnut. A brass bed with frolicsome curves and angles of shiny metal contrasting with the cloudy dullness of the heavier portions took its place. The imperfect set of plain white china with the narrow border of gold and blue was stored in the attic. In its stead appeared china of awe-inspiring combinations of bluebirds kissing on the wing, many cupolaed pagodas, sampans rowed by fat-bellied Chinamen, and trees of a design never produced even by a