The furniture, the trappings, the ornaments throughout were of a most unusual character. A distinctly regal atmosphere prevailed. No article there but had come from the palace of a ruler in the East, from the massive gold and lacquered table to the tiniest piece of bronze or the lowliest hassock. Chairs that had served as thrones, chests that had contained the treasures of potentates, robes that had covered the bodies of kings and queens, couches on which had nestled the favourites of sultans, screens and mirrors that had reflected the jewels of an empire--_all_ were here to feed the senses with dreams imperial. Great lanterns hung suspended beside the shrine at the end of the room, but were now unlighted. On the table at which Brood professed to work stood a huge lamp with a lacelike screen of gold. When lighted, a soft, mellow glow oozed through the shade to create a circle of golden brilliance over a radius that extended but little beyond the edge of the table, yet reached to the benign countenance of Buddha close by. Over all this fairylike splendour reigned the serene, melting influence of the god to whom James Brood was wont to confess himself. The spell of the golden image dominated everything. In the midst of this magnificence moved the two women--one absurdly out of touch with her surroundings, yet a thing of beauty; the other blending intimately with the warm tones that enveloped her. She was lithe, sinuous, with the grace of the most seductive of dancers. Her dark eyes reflected the mysteries of the Orient; her pale, smooth skin shone with the clearness of alabaster; the crimson in her lips was like the fresh stain of blood; the very fragrance of her person seemed to steal out of the unknown. She was a part of the marvellous setting, a gem among gems. She had attired herself in a dull Indian-red afternoon gown of chiffon. The very fabric seemed to cling to her supple body with a sensuous joy of contact. Even Lydia, who watched her with appraising eyes, experienced a swift, unaccountable desire to hold this intoxicating creature close to her own body. There were two windows in the room, broad openings that ran from near the floor almost to the edge of the canopy. They were so heavily curtained that the light of day failed to penetrate to the interior of the apartment. Mrs Brood approached one of these windows. Drawing the curtains apart, she let in an ugly gray light from the outside world. The illusion was spoiled at once. “How cold and pallid the world really is!” she cried, a shiver passing over her slim body. The sky above the housetops was bleak and drab in the waning light of late afternoon. Over the summits of loft-buildings to the south and west hung the smoke from the river beyond, smudgy clouds that neither drifted nor settled. She looked down into a sort of courtyard and garden that might have been transplanted from distant Araby. Uttering an exclamation of wonder, she turned to Lydia.