There were no pictures on the walls, and there were no flowers nor plants in pots, to relieve the strong colour which filled the eye.

Nevertheless the room had the air of being inhabited, and was less glaring and stiff and old-fashioned than it might seem from this description.

There were a good many books on the tables, chiefly French novels, as yellow as the hangings; and there were writing materials and a couple of newspapers and two or three open notes.

A small wood fire burned in a deep, low fireplace adorned with marble and gilt brass.
Matilde Macomer sat, leaning back, upon a little sofa which stood across a corner of the room far from the fire.

One hand lay idly in her lap, the other, as she stretched out her arm, lay upon the back of the sofa, and her head with its thick, brown hair was bent down.