Such a jumble of a room as it was! Odds and ends of furniture, the
survival of various household wrecks; chipped bric-a-brac; a rug from
which the pattern had long ago vanished; an old couch piled with shabby
cushions; a piano with scattered music sheets. On the walls, from ceiling
to foot-board, hung faded photographs of actors and actresses, most of
them with bold inscriptions dashed across their corners in which the
donors invariably expressed their friendship, affection, or if the
chirography was feminine their devoted love, for "dear Claude Martel."
Over the mantel was a portrait of dear Claude himself, taken in the role
of Mark Antony, and making rather a good job of it, on the whole, with
his fine Roman profile and massive brow.
It was all shabby and dusty and untidy; but to Quinby Graham, standing on
the hearth-rug and trying to handle his small coffee-cup as if he were
used to it, the room was completely satisfying. There was a cozy warmth
and mellowness about it, a kindly atmosphere of fellowship, a sense of
intimate human relations, that brought a lump into his throat. He had
almost forgotten that things could be like this!
So absorbed was he in his surroundings, and in the imposing old actor
encompassed by the galaxy of pictured notables, that he lost the thread
of Mr.
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