The walls were hung with dull blue paper of a very rough texture set off by a narrow picture moulding of ivory white.  A dark red carpet covered with rugs and skins lay on the floor.  Upon the left-hand wall, reaching to the floor, hung a huge rug of sombre colours against which were fixed a fencing trophy, a pair of antlers, a little water colour sketch of a Norwegian fjord, and Vandover’s banjo; underneath it was a low but very broad divan covered with corduroy.  To the right and left of this divan stood breast-high bookcases with olive green curtains, their tops serving as shelves for a multitude of small ornaments, casts of animals by Fremiet and Barye, Donatello’s lovely femme inconnue, beer steins, a little bronze clock, a calendar, and a yellow satin slipper of Flossie’s in which Vandover kept Turkish cigarettes.  The writing-desk with the huge blue blotter in a silver frame, the paper-cutter, and the enormous brass inkstand filled the corner to the right of the divan, while drawn up to it was the huge leather chair, the chair in which the Old Gentleman had died.  In the drawer of the desk Vandover kept his father’s revolver; he never thought of loading it; of late he had only used it to drive tacks with, when he could not find the hammer.  Opposite the divan, on the other side of the room, was the famous tiled stove with the flamboyant ornaments; back of this the mantel, and over the mantel a row of twelve grotesque heads in plaster, with a space between each for a pipe.  To the left in the angle of the room stood the Japanese screen in black and gold, and close to this a tea-table of bamboo and a piano-lamp with a great shade of crinkly red paper that Turner Ravis had given to Vandover one Christmas.  The bay window was filled by the window-seat, covered with corduroy like the divan and heaped with cushions, one of them of flaming yellow, the one spot of vivid colour amidst the dull browns and sombre blues of the room.  A great sideboard with decanters and glasses and chafing-dishes faced the window from the end wall.  The entrance to the studio opened to the left of it, which entrance Vandover had hung with curtains of dust-brown plush.

The casts of the Assyrian bas-reliefs were against the wall upon either side of the window.  There were three of them, two representing scenes from the life of the king, the third the wounded lioness which Vandover never wearied of admiring.

Upon the wall over the mantel hung two very large photogravures, one of Rembrandt’s “Night Watch,” the other a portrait of Velasquez representing a young man with a hunting spear.  Above one of the bookcases was an admirable reproduction of the “Mona Lisa”; above the other, a carbon print of a Vandyke, a Dutch lady in a silk gown and very high ruff.

By the side of the “Mona Lisa,” however, was a cheap brass rack stuffed with photographs:  actresses in tights, French quadrille dancers, high kickers, and chorus girls.