usly
carved shelves; chairs and cabinets which were genuine relics of the age
of Louis XV.; and pictures by artists who lived in Italy before the days
when Italians learned to paint.

I found myself in a house which was curiously bare of furniture. There
were a few pictures in each of the rooms I entered, modern pictures, and
I suppose good, but I am no judge of such things. There were scarcely
any ornaments to be seen and very few tables and chairs. My own feeling
is that a house should be furnished in such a way as to be thoroughly
comfortable. I like deep soft chairs and sofas to sit on. I like to have
many small tables on which to lay down books, newspapers and pipes. I
like thick carpets and curtains which keep out draughts. I would not
live in Ascher's house, even if I were paid for doing so by being given
Ascher's fortune. But I would rather live in Ascher's house than in one
of those overcrowded museums which are the delight of very wealthy
New York Jews. I should, in some moods, find a pleasure in the fine
proportions of the rooms which Ascher refuses to spoil. I could never, I
know, be happy in a place where I ran the risk of dropping tobacco ashes
on thirteenth century tapestry and dared not move suddenly lest I should
knock over some priceless piece of china.

We ate at a small table set at one end of a big dining-room, a
dining-room in which, I suppose, thirty people could have sat down
together comfortably. There was no affectation of shaded lights and
gloomy, mysterious spaces. Ascher had aimed at and achieved something
like a subdued daylight by means of electric lamps, shaded underneath,
which shone on the ceiling. I could see all the corners of the room, the
walls with their pictures and the broad floor across which the servants
passed. The dinner itself was very short and simple. If I had been
actually hungry, as I am in the country after shooting, I should have
called the dinner meagre. For a London appetite there was enough, but
not more than enough. I might, a younger and more vigorous man would,
have got up from the table hungry. But the food was exquisite. The cook
must be a descendant of one of those artists whom Lord Beaconsfield
described in "Tancred," and he has found in Ascher's house a situation
which ought to satisfy him. Ascher does not care for sumptuousness
or abundance; but he knows how to eat well. We had one wine, a very
delicately flavoured white Italian wine, perhaps from Capri, t