Richard Treadwell's rooms were as unlike the elegant apartments of Tolman Bike, as a violet is unlike a rose. One, like a laughing, romping child, denoted health and cheerfulness; the other, unhealthy in tone and coloring, spoke of dreams and selfish gratification.
Here were copies of Rosa Bonheur's master-pieces of animal life, pictures of racing horses, photographs of serious-faced dogs in comical positions, a stuffed fish's head, with wide open mouth, mounted on a plaque; boxing gloves, clubs and dumb-bells, lying where they had fallen after this young man had taken a turn at each of them. There was an unsorted jumble of walking-sticks, whips, fishing tackle and firearms. The furniture was light, the curtains were thin and airy, the carpet was bright and soft.
Richard ate and read unmindful of the wrestling match between a bow-legged pug and a saucy black-and-tan, whose little sharp
