Except for two rush-seated armchairs, there was no suggestion of providing any recognized forms of comfort.  The chair at the open bureau, with its case of books above it, had a wooden seat; all the rest of the smaller wooden chairs were wooden-seated as well.  There was no visible and obvious sign of any desire for luxury; yet luxurious it all seemed to Sally, every corner of it, as she gazed around her.  It was a luxury conveyed by the intrinsic value of every article of furniture he possessed; a luxury far more lasting, far more complete, than any to be found in down cushions and gently shaded lights.

Austerity was the note through it all, austerity even in the pictures upon the walls.  They were prints, old prints, coloured or plain, representing boxers of the old school, stripped to the waist, the ugly muscles flexed and bulging as they raised their lithe arms in the attitude of defence.  There were no other pictures but these; nothing to show that he had a heart above boxing.  There was one thing.  In their journey around the walls, Sally’s eyes fell on a little coloured miniature in a plain gold frame that hung by the side of the bureau.  At that distance, she could distinguish that it was a girl, a girl with fair hair that clustered on her shoulders.  The beating of her heart dropped to a whisper when she saw it, all the pulses stopped, and she felt a cool, damp air blowing across her face.

“Well,” said Traill, with a smile, “I suppose you think it is confoundedly uncomfortable?”

She turned, faced him, forcing strength to master her sudden apprehension.

“I think it’s absolutely lovely,” she said, with simplicity.  “I’ve never seen a room like it before.”

“And you don’t find the want of soft things, cushions and all that sort of business?”

“No, oh no! they’d spoil it.  One doesn’t want cushions to be comfortable, one wants surroundings.  These are perfect.”

He looked at her with appreciation; then, as a thought swept over him, it altered to an expression of tenderness.  He put his heel on that, churned it round, and strode over to the fireplace.

“Here, come and sit down here and get warm while I make the coffee,” he said.  “It’s frightfully cold outside, you know.  I shouldn’t wonder if it isn’t freezing.”

She followed obediently, and took the chair he had drawn out for her.  Then he hurried about, opening cupboards and drawers, producing a saucepan here, a coffee-pot and a milk-can there, until all the things were laid on the table.  And all this time, while she made sure that she was not being observed, Sally’s eyes wandered backwards and forwards to the little miniature.  She was nearer to it now and could more clearly distinguish the features.  They reminded her somewhat of herself.  There were the same round cheeks, the same small childishness of lips and nose and chin, the same pale complexion tinged with fragile pink, the same big, blue eyes.  Had