When a man comes to the door book in hand and you have the testimony of
the versatility and breadth of his reading in half a bushel of mail for
him, you expect to find his surroundings in keeping. But in Jasper
Ewold's living-room Jack found nothing of the kind.

Heavy, natural beams supported the ceiling. On the gray cement walls were
four German photographs of famous marbles. The Venus de Milo looked
across to the David of Michael Angelo; the Flying Victory across to
Rodin's Thinker. In the centre was a massive Florentine table, its broad
top bare except for a big ivory tusk paper-knife free from any mounting
of silver. On the shelf underneath were portfolios of the reproductions
of paintings.

An effect which at first was one of quiet spaciousness became impressive
and compelling. Its simplicity was without any of the artificiality that
sometimes accompanies an effort to escape over-ornamentation. No one
could be in the room without thinking through his eyes and with his
imagination. Wherever he sat he would look up to a masterpiece as the
sole object of contemplation.

"This is my room. Here, Mary lets me have my way," said Jasper Ewold.
"And it is not expensive."

"The Japanese idea of concentration," said Jack.

Jasper Ewold, who had been watching the effect of the room on Jack, as he
watched it on every new-comer, showed his surprise and pleasure that this
young man in cowboy regalia understood some things besides camps and
trails; and this very fact made him answer in the vigorous and enjoyed
combatancy of the born controversialist.