On her way into the second room, however, Rosamond’s attention was attracted by a picture beside the door opening thereto, and with an exclamation, “Oh, this looks like Gordon!  Where did he get it?” she paused.  Roberta glanced that way, but a quite different object in the inner room had caught her eye, and leaving Rosamond to her wonder over a rather remarkable resemblance to her own little son in the rarely exquisite colour-drawing of a child of similar age, she went on, to stand still in the doorway, surprised out of all restraint as to the use of her interested eyes.

For this, contrary to all possible expectations, was either the room of a man of literary tastes, and of one who also preferred simplicity and utility to display of any sort, or it was an extremely clever imitation of such a room.  And there were certain rather trustworthy evidences of the former.

The room, although smaller than the outer one, was a place of good size, with several large windows.  Its walls to a height of several feet were lined with bookshelves filled to overflowing, the whole representing no less than three or four thousand books; Roberta could hardly guess at their number.  Several comfortable easy-chairs and a massive desk were almost the only other furnishings, unless one included a few framed foreign photographs and the two portraits which hung on opposite walls.  These presently called for study.

Rosamond came in and stood beside her sister, regarding the portraits with curiosity.  “The father has a remarkably fine face, hasn’t he?” she observed, turning from one to the other.  “Unusually fine; and I think his son resembles him.  But he is more like his mother.  Isn’t she beautiful?  And he never knew her; she died when he was such a little fellow.  Isn’t it touching to see how he has her there above his desk as if he wanted to know her?  How many books!  I didn’t know he cared for books, did you?  Perhaps they were his father’s; though his father was a business man.  Yet I don’t know why we never credit business men with any interest in books.  Perhaps they study them more than we imagine; they must study something.  Rob, did you see the picture in the other room that looks so like Gordon?  It seems almost as if it must have been painted from him.”

She flitted back into the outer room.  Roberta stood still before the desk, above which hung the portrait of the lovely young woman who had been Richard’s mother.  Younger than Roberta herself she looked; such a girl to pass away and leave her baby, her first-born!  And he had her here in the place of honour above his desk, where he sat to write and read.  For he did read, she grew sure of it as she looked about her.  Though the room was obviously looked after by a servant, it was probable that there were orders not to touch the contents of the desk-top itself, for this was as if it had been lately used.  Books, a foreign review or two, a pile of letters, various desk furnishings in a curious design of wrought copper, and—­what was this?—­a little photograph in a frame!  Horses, three of them, saddled and tied to a fence; at one side, in an attitude of arrested attention, a girl’s figure in riding dress.