He recalled that he had seen its like in a big furniture display at Paris when they were there together, and that he had said he would get one for himself some day.
This hint that there might be more than mere matter in those surroundings set his eyes to roving.

That revolving bookcase by the desk, the circular kind he had always wanted, and in it the books he liked to have at hand--Montaigne and Don Quixote, Shakespeare and Shelley and Swinburne, the Encyclopedia, the statistical yearbooks; on top, his favorites among the magazines.

And the desk itself--a huge spread of cleared surface--an enormous blotting pad, an ink well that was indeed a well--all just what he had so often longed for as he sat cramped at little desks where an attempt to work meant overflow and chaos of books and papers.

And that big inlaid box--it was full of his favorite cigarettes; and the drop-light, and the green shade for the eyes, and the row of pencils sharpened as he liked them-- He knocked at her door.

"Won't you come out here a moment ?" cried he, putting it in that form because he had never adventured her intimate threshold.
No answer, though the door was ajar and she must have heard.
"Please come out here," he repeated.
A pause; then, in her voice, shy but resolute, the single word, "Come!".