The library was almost too large, and too lofty a room to be comfortably habitable. Worse still, in spite of its south aspect, and its row of tall windows, the eight or nine thousand volumes, which filled the wire fronted bookcases, which ran round two sides of the room, it always seemed to the King, gave it a dead and musty air. These books were for show, not for use. No one ever took them down from the shelves. No one ever read them. The erudite, silver-haired, palace librarian, himself, was more concerned with the rarities amongst them, and with his catalogue, than with their contents. But the books, musty monuments of dead men's brains, as he regarded them, were not the King's chief complaint. A number of Family portraits, which usurped the place of the bookcases, here and there, on the lofty walls, were his real grievance. A queer feeling of antagonism had grown up between him and these portraits. They always seemed to be watching him, watching him, and disapproving of him. The mere thought of them sufficed to check his good spirits, now, as he entered the library. As he sat down at his writing table, he turned, and looked round at them defiantly. The writing table stood as close up to the row of tall windows, on the south side of the library, as was possible. The windows, with their pleasant view of the sunlit greenness of the garden, were on the King's left, as he sat at the table. Straight in front of him were the undecorated, black oak panels of the folding doors which led into the secretaries' room. On his right on the north wall of the library, were many of the books, and three of the portraits.