There were yellow flags in a jar on the mantelpiece; a photograph of his mother; cards from societies with little raised crescents, coats of arms, and initials; notes and pipes; on the table lay paper ruled with a red margin--an essay, no doubt--"Does History consist of the Biographies of Great Men ?" There were books enough; very few French books; but then any one who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, with extravagant enthusiasm.

Lives of the Duke of Wellington, for example; Spinoza; the works of Dickens; the Faery Queen; a Greek dictionary with the petals of poppies pressed to silk between the pages; all the Elizabethans.

His slippers were incredibly shabby, like boats burnt to the water's rim.

Then there were photographs from the Greeks, and a mezzotint from Sir Joshua--all very English.

The works of Jane Austen, too, in deference, perhaps, to some one else's standard.