s discovered. See! Here sits Peter Stirling,
the ward politician, enthroned in Jeffersonian simplicity. But here,
behind the arras, sits Peter Stirling, the counsellor of banks and
railroads, in the midst of all the gorgeousness of the golden East."
Watts passed into the room beyond.

"What does he mean, Peter?"

"He has gone into my study. Would you like--"

He was interrupted by Watts calling, "Come in here, Dot, and see how the
unsociable old hermit bestows himself."

So Leonore and Peter followed Watts's lead. The room into which they
went was rather a curious one. It was at least twenty-five feet square,
having four windows, two looking out on Broadway, and two on the side
street. It had one other door besides that by which they had entered.
Here the ordinary quality ended. Except for the six openings already
noted and a large fireplace, the walls were shelved from floor to
ceiling (which was not a low one), with dusky oak shelving. The ceiling
was panelled in dark oak, and the floor was covered with a smooth
surface of the same wood. Yet though the shelves were filled with books,
few could be seen, for on every upright of the shelving, were several
frames of oak, hinged as one sees them in public galleries occasionally,
and these frames contained etchings, engravings, and paintings. Some
were folded back against the shelves. Others stood out at right angles
to them and showed that the frames were double ones, both sides
containing something. Four easy-chairs, three less easy chairs, and a
large table desk, likewise of dusky oak were the sole other fittings of
the room, if we except two large polar bear skins.

"Oh," cried Leonore looking about, "I'm so glad to see this. People have
told me so much about your rooms. And no two of them ever agreed."

"No," said Peter. "It seems a continual bone of contention with my
friends. They scold me because I shelved it to the ceiling, because I
put in one-colored wood, because I framed my pictures and engravings
this way, and because I haven't gone in for rugs, and bric-a-brac, and
the usual furnishings. At times I have really wondered, from their
determination to change things, whether it was for them to live in, or
for my use?"

"It is unusual," said Leonore, reluctantly, and evidently selecting a
word that should not offend Peter.

"You ought to be hung for treating fine pictures so," said Watts.

"I had to give them those broad flat mats, because the books gave