d in a local Yorkshire paper two days old.

His rooms were very characteristic of himself. They were five in
number--a dining-room, two bedrooms, and two sitting-rooms divided by
curtains, as well as a little entrance-hall that opened on to the
landing, close beside the lift that served all the flats. They were
furnished in a peculiarly restrained style--so restrained, in fact, that
it was almost impossible to remember what was in them. One was just
conscious of a sense of extreme comfort and convenience. There was
nothing in particular that arrested the attention or caught the eye,
except here and there a space or a patch of wall about which Dick had
not yet made up his mind. He had been in them two years, indeed, but he
had not nearly finished furnishing. From time to time a new piece of
furniture appeared, or a new picture--always exceedingly good of its
kind, and even conspicuous. Yet, somehow or other, so excellent was his
taste, as soon as the thing was in place its conspicuousness (so to
speak) vanished amidst the protective coloring, and it looked as if it
had been there for ever. The colors were chosen with the same superfine
skill: singly they were brilliant, or at least remarkable (the ceilings,
for instance, were of a rich buttercup yellow); collectively they were
subdued and unnoticeable. And I suppose this is exactly what rooms ought
to be.

The breakfast-table at which he sat was a good instance of his taste.
The silver-plate on it was really remarkable. There was a delightful
Caroline tankard in the middle, placed there for the sheer pleasure of
looking at it; there was a large silver cow with a lid in its back;
there were four rat-tail spoons; the china was an extremely cheap
Venetian crockery of brilliant designs and thick make. The coffee-pot
and milk-pot were early Georgian, with very peculiar marks; but these
vessels were at present hidden under the folded newspaper. There were
four chrysanthemums in four several vases of an exceptional kind of
glass. It sounds startling, I know, but the effect was not startling,
though I cannot imagine why not. Here again one was just conscious of
freshness and suitability and comfort.

* * * * *

But Dick was taking no pleasure in it all this morning. He was feeling
almost physically sick, and the little spirit-heated silver dish of
kidneys on his Queen Anne sideboard was undisturbed. He had cut off the
top of an egg which was no