Once inside his own cosey rooms Peter bustled about, poking the
fire into life, drawing the red curtains closer, moving a vase of
roses so he could catch their fragrance from where he sat,
wheeling two big, easy, all-embracing arm-chairs to the blaze,
rolling a small table laden with various burnables and pourables
within reach of their elbows, and otherwise disporting himself
after the manner of the most cheery and lovable of hosts. This
done, he again took up the thread of his discourse.
"Yes! He's a wonderful old fellow, this Isaac Cohen," he rattled
on when the two were seated. "You had only a glimpse of that den
of his, but you should see his books on costumes,--he's an
authority, you know,--and his miniatures,--Oh, a Cosway, which he
keeps in his safe, that is a wonder!--and his old manuscripts.
Those are locked up too. And he's a gentleman, too, Jack; not once
in all the years I have known him have I ever heard him mention
the word money in an objectionable way, and he has plenty of it
even if he does press off my coat with his own hands.
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