et high, flanked the hearthstone.

The windows of the room were heavily draped in sombre brocade and ecru
lace, in which the initials of the family were very beautifully worked.
But directly opposite the fireplace, an extra window, lighted from
the adjoining conservatory, threw a wonderful, rich light into the
apartment. It was a Gothic window of stained glass, very large, the
centre figures being armed warriors, Parsifal and Lohengrin; the one
with a banner, the other with a swan. The effect was exquisite, the
window a veritable masterpiece, glowing, flaming, and burning with a
hundred tints and colours--opalescent, purple, wine-red, clouded pinks,
royal blues, saffrons, violets so dark as to be almost black.

Under foot, the carpet had all the softness of texture of grass; skins
(one of them of an enormous polar bear) and rugs of silk velvet were
spread upon the floor. A Renaissance cabinet of ebony, many feet taller
than Presley's head, and inlaid with ivory and silver, occupied one
corner of the room, while in its centre stood a vast table of Flemish
oak, black, heavy as iron, massive. A faint odour of sandalwood
pervaded the air. From the conservatory near-by, came the splashing of
a fountain. A row of electric bulbs let into the frieze of the walls
between the golden capitals, and burning dimly behind hemispheres of
clouded glass, threw a subdued light over the whole scene.

Mrs. Gerard came forward.

"This is Mr. Presley, of course, our new poet of whom we are all so
proud. I was so afraid you would be unable to come. You have given me a
real pleasure in allowing me to welcome you here."

The footman appeared at her elbow.

"Dinner is served, madame," he announced.

*****

When Mrs. Hooven had left the boarding-house on Castro Street, she
had taken up a position on a neighbouring corner, to wait for Minna's
reappearance. Little Hilda, at this time hardly more than six years of
age, was with her, holding to her hand.

Mrs. Hooven was by no means an old woman, but hard work had aged her.
She no longer had any claim to good looks. She no longer took much
interest in her personal appearance. At the time of her eviction
from the Castro Street boarding-house, she wore a faded black bonnet,
garnished with faded artificial flowers of dirty pink. A plaid shawl
was about her shoulders. But this day of misfortune had set Mrs. Hooven
adrift in even worse condition than her daughter. Her purse, containing
a miserab