It was a long time before he took a seat; on doing so, he threw up his feet, and rested them against the side of the fireplace.

His hands were thrust into his trouser-pockets, and his head fell back, so that he stared at the ceiling.

At one moment he gave out a short mocking laugh, but no look of mirth followed the explosion.

Little by little he grew motionless, and sat with closed eyes.
From the walls about him looked down many a sweet and noble countenance, such as should have made the room a temple of serenity.
Nowhere was there a token of vulgar sensualism; the actress, the ballet-nymph had no place among these chosen gems of art.

On the dwarf book-cases were none but works of pure inspiration, the best of old and new, the kings of intellect and their gentlest courtiers.