There were one or two other touches in the picture worth mentioning, the
touches which spoke of human life. An old-fashioned hat-tree just
opposite the rear door was hung full with hats. A heavy ulster lay over
a chair close by, and two umbrellas stood in the corner. And over
hat-rack, hats, ulster, and chair, with one end of silken fringe caught
upon one of the umbrella ribs, had been flung by some careless hand,
presumably feminine, a long silken scarf of the most intense
rose-colour, a hue so vivid, as the light caught it from the landing
above, that it seemed almost to be alive.
From various parts of the house came sounds--of voices and of footsteps,
more than once of distant laughter. Far above somewhere a child's high
call rang out. Nearer at hand some one touched the keys of a piano,
playing snatches of Schumann--_Der Nussbaum, Mondnacht, Die Lotosblume_.
Richard recognized the airs which thus reached his ears, and was sorry
when they ceased.
Now there might be nothing in all this worth describing if the effect
upon the observer had not been one to him so unaccustomed. Though he had
lived to the age of twenty-eight years, he had never set foot in a place
which seemed so curiously like a vague dream he had somewhere at the
back of his head.
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