Mrs. Bagot turned from the street and from Minnie and from the ferns, and was surprised to see how like a mirror the big naked window in the back room was, but like a mirror that you could see through, a mirror that went both ways and showed both sides. It was like a painting. She saw the wet, reluctant daylight air out there in the garden, and the rain was falling so strong and straight that she was sure she could make out every separate driving line of it. Beyond and through the rain, as in a dream, there were the indistinct colors of the garden, and then, coming back through the glass to herself, she could see herself, with the folded-back door to her right, and behind her the wavering green heads of her ferns, and behind the ferns the starched white net curtains making a ghostly and final wall. She knew that what she saw was beautiful, and at the same moment she knew that she did not want to look anymore at the window or the garden or the ferns or anything. She was tired. She hurried out of the room and down to the kitchen, where she filled the kettle and put it on to boil for her tea. While the kettle was boiling she would wash her face and hands and straighten her hair. The cold water on her face would wake her up — she felt that she had been sleeping for hours, and not sleeping happily. She hurried upstairs. The narrow stairs from the hall had a wine-red runner that was held in place at each step by thin brass rods that she pulled out and polished every Monday. The rods shone more steadily in this evening’s dimness than they ever shone on a sunny day, and the wooden banister glowed with the same warm and reverberating depth, as though the dying light called up sources of strength that went unnoticed in the self-sufficient daytime. The house was full of secret light that she never noticed when the children were at home.