and silver and topaz and turquoise.  There were a great many books on low shelves.  There were bronzes, jars, and squat idols.  There were a few pieces of Chinese ivory work.  There were many skins of lions, bears, and tigers on the floor, besides a great Persian rug which gleamed like a blurred jewel.  Besides the firelight there was only one great bronze lamp to illuminate the room.  This lamp had a red shade, which cast a soft, fiery glow over everything.  There were not many pictures.  The rich Eastern stuffs, and even a skin or two of tawny hue, covered most of the wall-spaces above the book-cases, giving backgrounds of color to bronzes and ivory carvings, but there was one picture at the farther end of the room which attracted James’s notice.  All that he could distinguish from where he sat was a splash of splendid red.

He gazed, and his curiosity grew.  Finally he rose, traversed the room, and came close to the picture.  It was a portrait of the woman who had met him at the door.  The red was the red of a splendid robe of velvet.  The portrait was evidently the work of no mean artist.  The texture of the velvet was something wonderful, so were the flesh tones; but James missed something in the face.  The portrait had been painted, he knew instinctively, before some great change had come into the woman’s heart, which had given her another aspect of beauty.

James turned away.  Then he noticed something else which seemed rather odd about the room.  All the windows were furnished with heavy wooden shutters, and, early as it was, hardly dark, all were closed, and fastened securely.  James somehow got an impression of secrecy, that it was considered necessary that no glimpse of the interior should be obtained from without after the lamp was lit.  They sat often carelessly at his own home of an evening with the shades up, and all the interior of the room plainly visible from the road.  An utter lack of secrecy was in James’s own character.  He scowled a little, as he returned to his seat by the fire.  He was too confused to think clearly, but he was conscious of a certain homesickness for the wonted things of his life, when the door opened and the woman reentered.

James rose, and she spoke in her sweet voice.  It was rather lower pitched than the voices of most women, and had a resonant quality.  “Your room is quite ready, Doctor Elliot,” said she.  “Your trunk is there.  If you would like to go there before dinner, I will pilot you.  We have but one maid, and she is preparing the dinner, which will be ready as soon as you are.  I hope Doctor Gordon and Clemency will have returned by that time, too.”