For she was very homeless.
As compared with the drawing-room, the library had been evidently lived in.

Its books and shabby chairs seemed to welcome her, and the old tapestry delighted her.

She stood some minutes before it in a quiet pleasure, dreaming herself into the forest, and discovering an old castle in its depths.

Then she noticed a portrait of an old man, labelled as by "Frank Holl, R.A.," hanging over the mantelpiece.

She supposed it was the grandfather who had collected the books.