The room was luxuriously appointed, for Mr.
Strathmore's belongings were always of a sort to minister pleasantly to
the sense. The walls were lined with books in sumptuous bindings, the
windows hung with heavy curtains of crimson velvet, the floor covered
with rich rugs. A bronze statuette of Savonarola stood on an ebony
pedestal between two windows, consorting somewhat oddly with the velvet
draperies which swept down on either side. Indeed, there might be
thought to be something in the thin, spiritually impassioned face of
the monk, in the eagerly imperative gesture with which he pointed with
one hand to the open Bible he held in the other, not entirely
consistent with the somewhat worldly air of the room. The handsome
carved chairs, cushioned with fine leather, the beautiful landscape by
Rousseau above the mantel, the bronze and silver of the writing-table,
had been given to the popular pastor by enthusiastic admirers, however,
and perhaps the Savonarola better expressed his own inner feelings. Mr.
Strathmore's face, it is true, was in itself somewhat unspiritual. The
clergyman was of commanding presence, and while neither unusually tall
nor exceptionally large, he somehow gave, from the air with which he
carried himself, the impression of size and importance.
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