One evening, much to her surprise, he invited her into his own particular den; it was at the far end of the bungalow, opened directly into the verandah, and was entered by three steps. As she stood and gazed about her Verona gave an exclamation of astonishment; she had seen an officer's barrack room in England, she was standing in its counterpart here. There was the brass-bound chest of drawers, the camp bed, the folding chair and round table; over the mantel-piece hung a sabre, sabre-tasche, and spurs; on the walls, covered with numbers of faded regimental groups, were also polo sticks, hog spears and some old sporting prints. One side of the room was lined with a bookcase; there was a writing table, a shabby, comfortable-looking armchair, and quantities of pipes. It was the room of an officer, and gentleman!
"Here I sit and smoke and dream alone," explained Mr. Chandos.
"Always alone?" enquired Verona.
"Yes; no one else cares to dream and read."
"I think I do, father."
"Then I invite you here; consider yourself an honorary member of the Den."
"Thank you."
"Do you play piquet or chess?"
"Yes—but not well."
"No doubt you will beat me—I am terribly rusty."