The room was long and lofty, a room of scarlet¹ hangings and pale brown stone, unilluminated as yet by any of its red-shaded electric lights. There were two great Italianate fire-places with projecting canopies² of carved stone; in one, the olive logs were unlit, in the other the fire, newly begun, burnt and crackled cheerfully; its leaping tongues of flame rejoiced and welcomed the evening. Bare expanses of the beeswaxed floor, sharp edges of the massive furniture, metallic³ studs and rods and handles and a big inkstand of brass⁴ responded by a gay waving of reflections to these glad Hallos. The curtains were not drawn⁵, and the outer world by contrast with this intimate ruddy tumult⁶ seemed very cold and still and remote. The tall window at one end gave upon the famous garden which rose steeply behind the house, terrace above terrace, a garden half phantasmal now in the twilight⁷, with masses of pallid⁸ blossom foaming⁹ over old walls, with winding¹⁰ steps, mighty¹¹ old jars, great dark trees happily placed, and a profusion¹² of flowers, halted and paraded, by the battalion¹³, by the phalanx, their colours still glowing, but seen beneath deeps of submerging blue, unsubstantial and mysteriously profound as they dissolved away into the gloaming. The other window stared out at the unruffled

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