Dressing-table

On the one side was a stand of moss roses, on the other a dressing-table, and a glass à la Psyche, over whose surface the wax tapers flung a soft light, worthy of any complexion, even had it rivalled the caliph Vathek’s pages, whose skins “were fair as the enamel of Frangistan.”

Going up to the dressing-table he passed his hand over the lilac-coloured pincushion, into which were stuck all kinds of pins; a bowl of pot-pourri exhaled a scent that made his head turn just a little.

“Don’t tell me she caught you bending again?” “Bending is right. I was half-way under the dressing-table. You and your singing,” I said, and I’m not sure I didn’t add the word “Forsooth!”

Now that the days of handbag-carrying women have largely drawn to a close, houseworkers rarely have a clearly marked-out personal territory – although for some the dressing-table may be a non-transportable handbag equivalent.