domestic. Mr. Hannaford's sanctum alone had character; it was hung
about with lethal weapons of many kinds and many epochs, including a
memento of every important war waged in Europe since the date of
Waterloo. A smoke-grimed rifle from some battlefield was in
Hannaford's view a thing greatly precious; still more, a bayonet
with stain of blood; these relics appealed to his emotions. Under
glass were ranged minutiae such as bullets, fragments of shells, bits
of gore-drenched cloth or linen, a splinter of human bone--all
ticketed with neat inscription. A bookcase contained volumes of
military history, works on firearms, treatises on (chiefly
explosive) chemistry; several great portfolios were packed with maps
and diagrams of warfare. Upstairs, a long garret served as
laboratory, and here were ranged less valuable possessions; weapons
to which some doubt attached, unbloody scraps of accoutrements, also
a few models of cannon and the like.

In society, Hannaford was an entertaining, sometimes a charming,
man, with a flow of well-informed talk, of agreeable anecdote; his
friends liked to have him at the dinner-table; he could never be at
a loss for a day or two's board and lodging when his home wearied
him. Under his own roof he seldom spoke save to find fault, rarely
showed anything but acrid countenance. He and his wife were
completely alienated; but for their child, they would long ago have
parted. It had been a love match, and the daughter's name, Olga,
still testified to the romance of their honeymoon; but that was
nearly twenty years gone by, and of these at least fifteen had been
spent in discord, concealed or flagrant. Mrs. Hannaford was
something of an artist; her husband spoke of all art with contempt
--except the great art of human slaughter. She liked the society of
foreigners; he, though a remarkable linguist, at heart distrusted