thoroughfare; externally it was as monotonous as the average London
mansion. The architect had disdained any attempt at ornamentation. As if
fearful of being accused of emulating his brother-in-art across the
channel, he had put up four walls and laid on a roof; he had given the
front wall a slightly outward curve. In so doing, he did not reason why;
he was merely following precedent that had created this incomprehensible
convexity.

But within, the mansion made a dignified and at the same time a pleasant
impression. John Steele, seated at the rear of a spacious room, where he
a few moments later found himself among a numerous company, looked
around on the old solid furnishings, the heavy rich curtains and those
other substantial appurtenances to a fine and stately town house. That
funereal atmosphere common to many homes of an ancient period was,
however, lacking. The observer felt as if some recent hand, the hand of
youth, had been busy hereabouts indulging in light touches that relieved
and gladdened the big room. Hues, soft and delicate, met the eye here
and there; rugs of fine pattern favored the glance, while tapestries of
French workmanship bade it wander amid scenes suggestive of Arcadia.
Many found these innovations to their liking; others frowned upon them;
but everybody flocked to the house.

The program on the present occasion included a poet and a woman
novelist. The former, a Preraphaelite, led his hearers through dim
mazes, Hyrcanian wilds. The novelist on the other hand was direct; in
following her there seemed no danger of losing the way. At the
conclusion of the program proper, an admirer of the poet asked if their
young hostess would not play a certain musical something, the theme of
one of the bard's effusions, and at once Jocelyn Wray complied. Lord
Ronsdale stood sedulously near, turning the leaves; Steele watched the