s legs mitigated
slightly, but did not entirely disperse them. My two warders were still
deep in clothes; I slipped off my chair and edged cautiously around the
room, exploring, examining, recording.

Many strange, fine things lay along my route--pictures and gimcracks
on the walls, trinkets and globular old watches and snuff-boxes on
the tables; and I took good care to finger everything within reach
thoroughly and conscientiously. Some articles, in addition, I smelt. At
last in my orbit I happened on an open door, half concealed by the
folds of a curtain. I glanced carefully around. They were still deep in
clothes, both talking together, and I slipped through.

This was altogether a more sensible sort of room that I had got into;
for the walls were honestly upholstered with books, though these for the
most part glimmered provokingly through the glass doors of their tall
cases. I read their titles longingly, breathing on every accessible
pane of glass, for I dared not attempt to open the doors, with the enemy
encamped so near. In the window, though, on a high sort of desk, there
lay, all by itself, a most promising-looking book, gorgeously bound. I
raised the leaves by one corner, and like scent from a pot-pourri jar
there floated out a brief vision of blues and reds, telling of pictures,
and pictures all highly coloured! Here was the right sort of thing at
last, and my afternoon would not be entirely wasted. I inclined an ear
to the door by which I had entered. Like the brimming tide of a full-fed
river the grand, eternal, inexhaustible clothes-problem bubbled and
eddied and surged along. It seemed safe enough. I slid the book off its
desk with some difficulty, for it was very fine and large, and staggered
with it to the hearthrug--the only fit and proper place for books of
quality, such as this.

They were excellent hearthrugs in that house; soft and wide, with the
thickest of pile, and one's knees sank into them most comfortably. When
I got the book open there was a difficulty at first in making the great
stiff pages lie down. Most fortunately the coal-scuttle was actually
at my elbow, and it was easy to find a flat bit of coal to lay on the
refractory page. Really, it was just as if everything had been arranged
for me. This was not such a bad sort of house after all.

The beginnings of the thing were gay borders--scrolls and strap-work
and diapered backgrounds, a maze of colour, with small misshapen figures
clam