He had a single good portrait of a woman's head hanging on one of his walls.

He had a special place adapted for his pistols, others for his foils, and again another for his whips.

The room was as pretty a bachelor's room as you would wish to enter, but you might see, by the position of the single easy-chair that was brought forward, that it was seldom appropriated to the comfort of more than one person.

Here he sat lounging over his breakfast, late on a Sunday morning in September, when all the world was out of town.

He was reading a letter which had just been brought down to him from his club.