into untrodden corners, could Peter recollect the rainbow floor his
feet had pressed when he was twenty-one. The noble bookcase,
surmounted by Minerva's bust. Really it was too expensive. But
the nodding curls had been so obstinate. Peter's silly books and
papers must be put away in order; the curls did not intend to
permit any excuse for untidiness. So, too, the handsome, brass-
bound desk; it must be worthy of the beautiful thoughts Peter would
pen upon it. The great sideboard, supported by two such angry-
looking mahogany lions; it must be strong to support the weight of
silver clever Peter would one day purchase to place upon it. The
few oil paintings in their heavy frames. A solidly furnished,
sober apartment; about it that subtle atmosphere of dignity one
finds but in old rooms long undisturbed, where one seems to read
upon the walls: "I, Joy and Sorrow, twain in one, have dwelt
here." One item only there was that seemed out of place among its
grave surroundings--a guitar, hanging from the wall, ornamented
with a ridiculous blue bow, somewhat faded.

"Mr. William Clodd?" demanded the decided voice.

Clodd started and closed the door.

"Guessed it in once," admitted Mr. Clodd.

"I thought so," said the decided voice. "We got your note this
afternoon. Mr. Hope will be back at eight. Will you kindly hang
up your hat and coat in the hall? You will find a box of cigars on
the mantelpiece. Excuse my being busy. I must finish this, then
I'll talk to you."