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Updated: June 5, 2025
On the table lies a book of Hours, 'cased in a cover of solid silver gilt, wrought with quaint devices and studded with small brilliants and rubies, and close by it 'squats a little ugly monster, a Lar, perhaps, dug up in the sunny fields of corn-bearing Sicily. Some dark antique bronzes contrast with the pale gleam of two noble Christi Crucifixi, one carved in ivory, the other moulded in wax. He has his trays of Tassie's gems, his tiny Louis-Quatorze bonbonniere with a miniature by Petitot, his highly prized 'brown-biscuit teapots, filagree- worked, his citron morocco letter-case, and his 'pomona-green' chair.
The tapestry-covered Louis-Quatorze chairs had belonged to Madame de Sevigne, and had furnished that dull country house whence she wrote the liveliest letters extant to her disreputable cousin, Bussy, Count of Babutin. These inestimable treasures had been picked up by Mr. and Mrs.
The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life. Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it?
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