He took in but a few details, but he knew enough about the better fittings of life to realize that he was in the presence of both money and the best of taste.

He noted the log fire in the broad fireplace, comfortable chairs, the imported rugs on the gleaming floor, the shelves of books which climbed to the ceiling, a quaint writing-desk in one corner which seemed to belong to another country and another century, but which was perfectly at home in this room.
On the desk he saw standing a leather-framed photograph which seemed familiar.

He crossed and picked it up.

Indeed it was familiar! It was a photograph of Hunt: of Hunt, not in the shabby, shapeless garments he wore down at the Duchess's, but Hunt accoutered as might be a man accustomed to such a room as this--though in this picture there was the same strong chin, the same belligerent good-natured eyes.
Now how and where did that impecunious, rough-neck painter fit into-- But the dazed question Larry was asking was interrupted by a voice from the door--the thick voice of a man: "Who the hell 'r' you ?" Larry whirled about.

In the doorway stood a tall, bellicose young gentleman of perhaps twenty-four or five, in evening dress, flushed of face, holding unsteadily to the door-jamb.
"I beg your pardon," said Larry.
"'N' what the hell you doin' here ?" continued the belligerent young gentleman.
"I'd be obliged to you if you could tell me," said Larry.
"Tryin' to stall, 'r' you," declared the young gentleman with a scowling profundity.