He extracted a card from his wallet, handed it to the ancient servitor and was bidden to come inside. He was ushered into a living room that was a grateful model of good taste, when you take into consideration what he had expected from the surrounding circumstances.
“Miss Pomeroy will be out directly, sir,” said the old woman. He nodded and seated himself on a comfortable divan, inspecting the room with interest. The furniture was gracefully made, combining comfort with a quiet elegance that spoke much for the occupant; a few Japanese prints were on the wall, and over the period mirror on one wall was a colored print of a blooded racehorse—not the usual racehorse print, however—it was to be seen that this print was the work of a master.
On another wall was a Whistler etching, skyrockets and all, and under it was a blue vase in the best Ming period. The portières and draperies were in deep blue velvet, drawn back by cords of burnt orange, and the curtains were a delicate tracery against the transparency of the windows. A baby grand piano jutted out of one corner, and he was thankful that the effect of the room had not been spoiled by an upright, because, he considered, there are no uprights that are not ugly. It was a comfortable room that looked as though it were lived in, with the piano open and a French song on the rack, as though the singer had just stepped out for a moment, and other music scattered carelessly over the top, around the base of the Japanese lamp that stood on the piano.
At his hand were a couple of library books—he opened them. One was a volume of Leonard Merrick. The other was a thin volume, a play by Herman Bahr
