Roger and Cicely had just finished dinner. Cicely led the way into what used to be called her father's den, when Roger first came to see her—leather-furnished, leather-walled then, studded with many brass-headed upholstery tacks, but now known as 'the book-room,' lined to the ceiling with Cicely's own long, slow accumulation of the most beautiful editions of the most beautiful things that have ever been expressed in print. And all within an arm's length, or an easy step or two, of the two low, softcushioned chairs, drawn up before the mantelless fireplace over which hung a single oil painting, the only interruption in the solid phalanx of books, except for the low narrow door (maple like the rest of the wood-work, rubbed to dark gold like an old saddle) and two windows.
The two windows were hung in purple velvet, the color of Concord grapes their bloom untouched; the two low armchairs and a couch near by, covered in raspberry red. There were logs burning now in the fireplace. The books in their many-colored bindings glowed in their gold settings like old jewels, and blended with amazing harmony with the exotic
