On the plain walls were some choice paintings.

A landscape by Constable, a water color by Fortuny, and a rough sketch by Detaille; and the inevitable marines, such as one might expect in the house of a fighting sailor.
He examined these closely, and was rather pleased to find them valuable old prints.

And, better to his mind than all these, was the deft, mysterious touch or suggestion of a woman's hand.

He saw it in the pillows on the lounge, in the curtains dropping from the windows, in the counterpane on the old four-poster.
Did Americans usually house their private secretaries in rooms fit for guests of long and intimate acquaintance?
Ah, yes; this sailor was a rich man; and this mansion had not been erected yesterday.

It amused him to think that these walls and richly polished floors were older than the French revolution.