The walls of this one were completely covered from floor to ceiling with latticed bookcases, enclosed throughout in a frame of oak carved in light classical relief by what appeared to be a French hand of the sixteenth century. The checkered bindings of the books, in which the creamy tints of vellum predominated, lined the whole surface of the wall with a delicate sobriety of color; over the mantelpiece, the picture of the founder of the house--a Holbein portrait, glorious in red robes and fur and golden necklace--seemed to gather up and give voice to all the dignity and impressiveness of the room beneath him; while on the window side the book-lined wall was, as it were, replaced by the wooded face of a hill, clothed in dark lines of trimmed yews, which rose abruptly, about a hundred yards from the house and overshadowed the whole library wing. Between the window and the hill, however, was a small old English garden, closely hedged round with yew hedges, and blazing now with every flower that an English August knows--with sunflowers, tiger lilies, and dahlias, white and red. The window was low, so that the flowers seemed to be actually in the room, challenging the pale tints of the books, the tawny browns and blues of the Persian carpet and the scarlet splendors of the courtier over the mantelpiece. The room was lit up besides by a few gleaming casts from the antique, by the ‘Diane Chasseresse’ of the Louvre, by the Hermes of Praxiteles smiling with immortal kindness on the child enthroned upon his arm, and by a Donatello figure of a woman in marble, its subtle, sweet austerity contrasting with the Greek frankness and blitheness of its companions. Langham was penetrated at once by the spell of this strange and beautiful place. The fastidious instincts which had been half revolted by the costly accumulations, the over-blown splendors of the drawing-room, were abundantly satisfied here. ‘So it was here,’ he said, looking round him, ‘that that man wrote the “Idols of the Market Place”?’ ‘I imagine so,’ said Robert; ‘if so, he might well have felt a little more charity toward the human race in writing it. The race cannot be said to have treated him badly on the whole. But now look, Langham, look at these books--the most precious things are here.’ And he turned the key of a particular section of the wall, which was not only latticed but glazed. ‘Here is “A Mirror for Magistrates.” Look at the title-page; you will find Gabriel Harvey’s name on it. Here is a first edition of “Astrophol and Stella,” another of the Arcadia. They may very well be presentation copies, for the Wendover of that day is known to have been a wit and a writer. Imagine finding them _in situ_ like this in the same room, perhaps on the same shelves, as at the beginning! The other rooms on this floor have been annexed since, but this room was always a library.’