about the two-hundredth time—­was perhaps the most fascinating nook in the whole house, inasmuch as it contained a little bit of everything, arranged with that perfect attention to detail which makes each object, small and great, appear not only ornamental, but positively necessary.  In one corner a quaint old jar overflowed with the brightness of fresh yellow daffodils; in another a long, tapering Venetian vase held feathery clusters of African grass and fern, . . here the medallion of a Greek philosopher or Roman Emperor gleamed whitely against the sombrely painted wall; there a Rembrandt portrait flashed out from the semi-obscure background of some rich, carefully disposed fold of drapery,—­while a few admirable casts from the antique lit up the deeper shadows of the room, such as the immortally youthful head of the Apollo Belvedere, the wisely serene countenance of the Pallas Athene that Goethe loved, and the Cupid of Praxiteles.

Judging from his outward appearance only, few would have given Villiers credit for being the man of penetrative and almost classic refinement he really was,—­he looked far more athletic than aesthetic.  Broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a round, blunt head firmly set on a full, strong throat, he had, on the whole, a somewhat obstinate and pugilistic air which totally belied his nature.  His features, open and ruddy, were, without being handsome, decidedly attractive—­the mouth was rather large, yet good-tempered; the eyes bright, blue, and sparklingly suggestive of a native inborn love of humor.  There was something fresh and piquant in the very expression of naive bewilderment with which he now adjusted his eyeglass—­a wholly unnecessary appendage—­and set himself strenuously to examine anew the chords of that extraordinary piece of music which others thought so easy and which he found so puzzling, . . he could manage the simple melody fairly well, but the chords!

“They are the very devil!".. he murmured plaintively, staring at the score, and hitching up his unruly instrument more securely against his knee, . .  “Perhaps the bow wants a little rosin.”

This was one of his minor weaknesses,—­he would never quite admit that false notes were his own fault.  “They couldn’t be, you know!” he mildly argued, addressing the obtrusive neck of the ’cello, which had a curious, stubborn way of poking itself into his chin, and causing him to wonder how it got there, . . surely the manner in which he held it had nothing to do with this awkward occurrence!  “I’m not such a fool as not to understand how to find the right notes, after all my practice!  There’s something wrong with the strings,—­or the bridge has gone awry,—­or”—­and this was his last resource—­“the bow wants more rosin!”