There was
a small round table before the window, supporting wax fruit under
a glass case. There was a hearthrug with a dazzling pattern of
imaginary flowers. On the blue cloth of the middle table were four
showily-bound volumes, arranged symmetrically. On the head of the
sofa lay a covering worked of blue and yellow Berlin wools. Two
arm-chairs were draped with long white antimacassars, ready to slip
off at a touch. As in the kitchen, there was a smell of cleanlines--of
furniture polish, hearthstone, and black-lead.
I should mention the ornaments of the walls. The pictures were: a
striking landscape of the Swiss type, an engraved portrait of
Garibaldi, an unframed view of a certain insurance office, a British
baby on a large scale from the Christmas number of an illustrated
paper.
The one singular feature of the room was a small, glass-doored
bookcase, full of volumes. They were all of Richard's purchasing; to
survey them was to understand the man, at all events on his
intellectual side. Without exception they belonged to that order of
literature which, if studied exclusively and for its own sake,--as
here it was,--brands a man indelibly, declaring at once the
incompleteness of his education and the deficiency of his instincts.
Social, political, religious,--under these three heads the volumes
classed themselves, and each class was represented by productions of
the 'extreme' school.
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