The one article, however, which, more than any other one thing in
his apartment, revealed his tastes and habits, was a long, wide,
ample mahogany desk, once the property of an ancestor, which stood
under the window in the front room. In this, ready to his hand,
were drawers little and big, full of miscellaneous papers and
envelopes; pigeon-holes crammed full of answered and unanswered
notes, some with crests on them, some with plain wax clinging to
the flap of the broken envelopes; many held together with the gum
of the common world. Here, too, were bundles of old letters tied
with tape; piles of pamphlets, quaint trays holding pens and
pencils, and here too was always to be found, in summer or in
winter, a big vase full of roses or blossoms, or whatever was in
season--a luxury he never denied himself.
To this desk, then, Peter betook himself the moment he had hung
his gray surtout on its hook in the closet and disposed of his hat
and umbrella. This was his up-town office, really, and here his
letters awaited him.
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