Mere question of imagination, perhaps, but old
fellows like you and me should take no chances--" and he laughed
heartily.
"This room was my father's," continued Peter. "The bookcases have
still some of the volumes he loved; he liked the low ceiling and
the big fireplace, and always wrote here--it was his library,
really. There opens the old drawing-room and next to it is
Felicia's den, where she concocts most of her deviltry, and the
dining-room beyond--and that's all there is on this floor, except
the kitchen, which you'll hear from later."
And as Peter rattled on, telling me the history of this and that
piece of old furniture, or portrait, or queer clock, my eyes were
absorbing the air of cosey comfort that permeated every corner of
the several rooms. Everything had the air of being used. In the
library the chairs were of leather, stretched into saggy folds by
many tired backs; the wide, high fender fronting the hearth,
though polished so that you could see your face in it, showed the
marks of many a drying shoe, while on the bricks framing the
fireplace could still be seen the scratchings of countless
matches.
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