There were many pipes, old and new, and whips and hunting-crops; and a gun-case standing by the wall and some crossed weapons on the wall.

I saw a pair of spurs in one corner, and, flung carelessly on the writing-table, as though the owner might return at any moment, there was a glove.
I took up the glove and kissed it furtively.

I wished I might have taken it to comfort me, for a sense of the hand it had held seemed to linger about it.

As I stood pressing it to my breast my eye fell on a picture that stood on the writing-table--a picture that was like yet unlike myself.

It was a reproduction of the miniature I remembered.
There were other pictures and photographs about--men in uniform, women of many ages, horses and dogs: one of Anthony Cardew himself, which made my heart beat to look at it.