So Leonore and Peter followed Watts’s lead. The room into which they went was rather a curious one. It was at least twenty-five feet square, having four windows, two looking out on Broadway, and two on the side street. It had one other door besides that by which they had entered. Here the ordinary quality ended. Except for the six openings already noted and a large fireplace, the walls were shelved from floor to ceiling (which was not a low one), with dusky oak shelving. The ceiling was panelled in dark oak, and the floor was covered with a smooth surface of the same wood. Yet though the shelves were filled with books, few could be seen, for on every upright of the shelving, were several frames of oak, hinged as one sees them in public galleries occasionally, and these frames contained etchings, engravings, and paintings. Some were folded back against the shelves. Others stood out at right angles to them and showed that the frames were double ones, both sides containing something. Four easy-chairs, three less easy chairs, and a large table desk, likewise of dusky oak were the sole other fittings of the room, if we except two large polar bear skins. “Oh,” cried Leonore looking about, “I’m so glad to see this. People have told me so much about your rooms. And no two of them ever agreed.” “No,” said Peter. “It seems a continual bone of contention with my friends. They scold me because I shelved it to the ceiling, because I put in one-colored wood, because I framed my pictures and engravings this way, and because I haven’t gone in for rugs, and bric-à-brac, and the usual furnishings. At times I have really wondered, from their determination to change things, whether it was for them to live in, or for my use?” “It is unusual,” said Leonore, reluctantly, and evidently selecting a word that should not offend Peter. “You ought to be hung for treating fine pictures so,” said Watts. “I had to give them those broad flat mats, because the books gave no background.” “It’s—it’s—” Leonore hesitated. “It’s not so startling, after a moment.” “You see they had to hang this way, or go unhung. I hadn’t wall space for both pictures and books. And by giving a few frames a turn, occasionally, I can always have fresh pictures to look at.” “Look here, Dot, here’s a genuine Rembrandt’s ‘Three Crosses,’” called Watts. “I didn’t know, old man, that you were such a connoisseur.” “I’m not,” said Peter. “I’m fond of such things, but I never should have had taste or time to gather these.” “Then how did you get them?” “A friend of mine—a man of exquisite taste—gathered them. He lost his money, and I bought them of him.” “That was Mr. Le Grand?” asked Leonore, ceasing her study of the “Three Crosses.” “Yes.” “Mrs. Rivington told me about it.” “It must have been devilish hard for him to part with such a collection,” said Watts.