Cosy armchairs, a grand piano, an almost medieval open grate, faced with dull-green tiles, a well-worn but cheerful carpet and two big silver candelabras were the principal features which attracted the newcomer.
There was in this room a harmony, a quiet order and a soothing quality which made it a haven of rest to a literary man with jagged nerves.

Two big bronze bowls were filled with early violets, another blazed like a pale sun with primroses, and the early woodland flowers filled the room with a faint fragrance.
A man rose to his feet, as John Lexman entered and crossed the room with an easy carriage.

He was a man possessed of singular beauty of face and of figure.

Half a head taller than the author, he carried himself with such a grace as to conceal his height.
"I missed you in town," he said, "so I thought I'd run down on the off chance of seeing you." He spoke in the well-modulated tone of one who had had a long acquaintance with the public schools and universities of England.

There was no trace of any foreign accent, yet Remington Kara was a Greek and had been born and partly educated in the more turbulent area of Albania.
The two men shook hands warmly.
"You'll stay to dinner ?" Kara glanced round with a smile at Grace Lexman.