Another pathway ran from the window to the wall, which the inmate had probably paced as he made up his speeches. There was her especial abomination, horse-hair furniture, a queer spindle-legged sideboard, some casual old prints on the wall; certainly there was nothing in the room to divert Laurence’s attention. Outside there was no prospect beyond a similar set of chambers, a very ugly block of buildings, and one forlorn tree waving its branches restlessly to and fro. She got up and glanced into an adjoining apartment. The clerks were not now watching her--Mr. Wynne did not tolerate idleness. This was his bedroom, a still barer scene. No carpet whatever, no curtains, a small iron bedstead, a big bath, a battalion of boots. Laurence, she remembered, was always extremely particular about his boots, and _hated_ to wear them when patched; these were whole, well cut, and in good case. There was a sixpenny glass on the wall, a painted chest of drawers and washstand, also one chair. Spartan simplicity, indeed! What a horrible contrast to her own luxurious home! She closed the door with a little shudder, and as she did so a quantity of large, important-looking cards and envelopes, stuck about the dusty chimney-piece mirror and the pipe-rack, caught her eye, and she immediately proceeded to examine them with dainty fingers. “Blest if she ain’t overhauling his invitations!” exclaimed one of the clerks, who, by tilting his chair back until it was at a most hazardous angle, caught a glimpse of what he and his coadjutor began to think was “Mr. Wynne’s young woman.” “Her cheek beats all! Shall I go and interfere?” asked the first speaker, in an awestruck whisper. “No; you just leave her alone,” said number two, who had the bump of caution well developed. “It ain’t our business; but I _did_ think he was about the last man in the world to have a lady coming and routing among his things. There ain’t nothing that she’ll find as will make her any wiser,” he concluded contemptuously.