The front room, into which he was ushered, was full of dim shadows, attributable to the multiplicity of curtains which obscured the small bay window. Carteret Street and the half-dozen florid, tawny, tree-lined avenues that run parallel to it contain hundreds of living rooms almost precisely similar. Its dimensions were thirteen feet by eleven, and the height of the ceiling appeared to bring the walls, which were papered in an undecipherable pattern of blue, even closer together than they really were. Linoleum with a few rugs served for a carpet. The fireplace was of painted stone, and a fancy screen of South African grasses hid the grate. Behind a clock and some vases on the mantelpiece rose a confection of walnut and silvered glass. A mahogany chiffonier filled the side of the room farthest from the window; it had a marble top and a large mirror framed in scroll work, and was littered with salt-cellars, fruit plates, and silver nicknacks. The table, a square one, was covered by a red cloth of flannel-like texture patterned in black. The chairs were of mahogany and horsehair, and matched the sofa, which stretched from the door nearly to the window. Several prints framed in gilt and oak depended by means of stout green cord from French nails with great earthenware heads. In the recess to the left of the hearth stood a piano, open, and a song on the music-stand. What distinguished the room from others of its type was a dwarf bookcase filled chiefly with French novels whose vivid yellow gratefully lightened a dark corner next the door. "Uncle is very forgetful," the girl began. There was some sewing on the table, and she had already taken it up. Richard felt shy and ill at ease, but his companion showed no symptom of discomposure. He smiled vaguely, not knowing what to reply. "I suppose he walks a good deal," he said at length. "Yes, he does." There was a second pause. The girl continued to sew quietly; she appeared to be indifferent whether they conversed or not. "I see you are a musician." "Oh, no!" She laughed, and looked at his eyes. "I sing a very little bit." "Do you sing Schubert's songs?" "Schubert's? No. Are they good?" "Rather. They're _the_ songs." "Classical, I suppose." Her tone implied that classical songs were outside the region of the practical. "Yes, of course." "I don't think I care much for classical music." "But you should." "Should I? Why?" She laughed gaily, like a child amused. "Hope Temple's songs are nice, and 'The River of Years,' I'm just learning that. Do you sing?" "No--I don't really sing. I haven't got a piano at my place--now." "What a pity! I suppose you know a great deal about music?" "I wish I did!" said Richard, trying awkwardly not to seem flattered. A third pause. "Mr. Aked seems to have a fine lot of French novels. I wish I had as many." "Yes. He's always bringing them in." "And this is the latest, eh?" He picked up "L'Abbé Tigrane," which lay on the table by the sewing.