TREBELL'S _working room is remarkable chiefly for the love of sunlight it
evidences in its owner. The walls are white; the window which faces you is
bare of all but the necessary curtains. Indeed, lack of draperies testifies
also to his horror of dust. There faces you besides a double door; when it
is opened another door is seen. When that is opened you discover a writing
table, and beyond can discern a book-case filled with heavy volumes--law
reports perhaps. The little room beyond is, so to speak, an under-study.
Between the two rooms a window, again barely curtained, throws light down
the staircase. But in the big room, while the books are many the choice of
them is catholic; and the book-cases are low, running along the wall. There
is an armchair before the bright fire, which is on your right. There is a
sofa. And in the middle of the room is an enormous double writing table
piled tidily with much appropriate impedimenta, blue books and pamphlets and
with an especial heap of unopened letters and parcels. At the table sits_
TREBELL _himself, in good health and spirits, but eyeing askance the work to
which he has evidently just returned. His sister looks in on him. She is
dressed to go out and has a housekeeping air._

FRANCES. Are you busy, Henry?

TREBELL. More or less. Come in.

FRANCES. You'll dine at home?

TREBELL. Anyone coming?

FRANCES. Julia Farrant and Lucy have run up to town, I think. I thought of
going round and asking them to come in ... but perhaps your young man will