Amid the warm dimness of the house he was aware of a few starry flowers, a few gleaming and beautiful stuffs, the white and black of an engraving, or the blurred golds and reds of an old Italian picture, humble school-work perhaps, collected at small cost by Diana's father, yet still breathing the magic of the Enchanted Land.

The house was refined, pleading, eager--like its mistress.

It made no display--but it admitted no vulgarity.

"These things are not here for mere decoration's sake," it seemed to say.

"Dear kind hands have touched them; dear silent voices have spoken of them.