ly de Reuss led him. He had only a mixed
impression of pale and beautiful statuary, drooping flowers with strange
perfumes, and the distant rippling of water; then he found himself in a
tiny octagonal chamber draped in yellow and white--a woman's den, cosy,
dainty, cool. She made him sit in an easy-chair, which seemed to sink
below him almost to the ground, and moved herself to a little
writing-table.

"There is just one message I must send" she said, "to a stupid house
where I am half expected to dine. It will not take me half a minute."

He sat still, listening mechanically to the sound of her pen scratching
across the paper. A tiny dachshund jumped into his lap, and with a
little snort of content curled itself up to sleep. He let his hand
wander over its sleek satin coat--the touch of anything living seemed to
inspire him with a more complete confidence as to the permanent and
material nature of his surroundings. Meanwhile, Emily de Reuss wrote
her excuses to a Duchess--a dinner-party of three weeks'
standing--knowing all the while that she was guilty of an unpardonable
social offence. She sealed her letter and touched a bell by her side.
Then she came over to him.

"Now I am free" she announced, "for a whole evening. How delightful!
What shall we do? I am ordering dinner at eight. Would you like to
look at my books, or play billiards, or sit here and talk? The garden I
am going to leave till afterwards. I want you to see it at its best."

"I should like to see your books," he replied.

She rose and moved towards the door.

"I am not certain," she said, "whether you will care for my library.
You will think it perhaps too modern. But there will be books there
that you will like, I am sure of that."

Douglas had never seen or dreamed of anything like it. The room was
ecclesiastical in shape and architecture, fluted pillars supported an
oak-beamed ceiling, and at its upper end was a small organ. But it was
its colour scheme which was so wonderful. The great cases which came
out in wings into the room were white. Everything was white--the rugs,
the raised frescoes on the walls, the chairs and hangings.

She watched his face, and assuming an apologetic attitude, said, "it is
unusual--and untraditional, I know, but I wanted something different,
and mine is essentially a modern library. In this country there is so
much to depress one, and one's surroundings, after all, count for much.
That is my poetry recess. You