the mantel-shelf is a large landscape, a fine Gainsborough, full of the complicated harmonies of an English summer.  Beneath it stands a row of bronzes of the Renaissance and potteries of the Orient.  Facing the door, as you enter, is an immense window set in a recess, with cushioned seats and large clear panes, stationed as it were at the very apex of the lake (which forms an almost perfect oval) and commanding a view of its whole extent.  At the other end, opposite the fireplace, the wall is studded, from floor to ceiling, with choice foreign paintings, placed in relief against the orthodox crimson screen.  Elsewhere the walls are covered with books, arranged neither in formal regularity nor quite helter-skelter, but in a sort of genial incongruity, which tells that sooner or later each volume feels sure of leaving the ranks and returning into different company.  Mr. Sloane makes use of his books.  His two passions, according to Theodore, are reading and talking; but to talk he must have a book in his hand.  The charm of the room lies in the absence of certain pedantic tones—­the browns, blacks and grays—­which distinguish most libraries.  The apartment is of the feminine gender.  There are half a dozen light colors scattered about—­pink in the carpet, tender blue in the curtains, yellow in the chairs.  The result is a general look of brightness and lightness; it expresses even a certain cynicism.  You perceive the place to be the home, not of a man of learning, but of a man of fancy.

He rose from his chair—­the man of fancy, to greet me—­the man of fact.  As I looked at him, in the lamplight, it seemed to me, for the first five minutes, that I had seldom seen an uglier little person.  It took me five minutes to get the point of view; then I began to admire.  He is diminutive, or at best of my own moderate stature, and bent and contracted with his seventy years; lean and delicate, moreover, and very highly finished.  He is curiously pale, with a kind of opaque yellow pallor.  Literally, it’s a magnificent yellow.  His skin is of just the hue and apparent texture of some old crumpled Oriental scroll.  I know a dozen painters who would give more than they have to arrive at the exact “tone” of his thick-veined, bloodless hands, his polished ivory knuckles.  His eyes are circled with red, but in the battered little setting of their orbits they have the lustre of old sapphires.  His nose, owing to the falling away of other portions of his face, has assumed a grotesque, unnatural prominence; it describes an immense arch, gleaming like a piece of parchment stretched on ivory.  He has, apparently, all his teeth, but has muffled his cranium in a dead black wig; of course he’s clean shaven.  In his dress he has a muffled, wadded look and an apparent aversion to linen, inasmuch as none is visible on his person.  He seems neat enough, but not fastidious.  At first, as I say, I fancied him monstrously ugly; but on further acquaintance I perceived that what I had taken for ugliness is nothing but the incomplete remains of remarkable good looks.  The line of his features is pure; his nose, caeteris paribus, would be extremely handsome; his eyes are the oldest eyes I ever saw, and yet they are wonderfully living.  He has something remarkably insinuating.