It was dainty as her own dainty self.  The dressing-table, the windows, the pretty little white bed, the broad, inviting lounge, the work-table and basket, the very wash-stand, were all trimmed and decked alike,—­white and yellow prevailing.  White lace curtains draped the window on the west—­that fateful window—­and the two that opened out on the roof of the piazza.  White lace curtains draped the bed, the dressing-table, and the wash-stand; white lace, or some equally flimsy and feminine material, hung about her book-shelves and work-table and over the lounge; and bows of bright yellow ribbon were everywhere, yellow pin-cushions and wall-pockets hung about the toilet-table, soft yellow rugs lay at the bed-and lounge-side, and a sunshiny tone was given to the whole apartment by the shades of yellow silk that hung close to the windows.

On the wall were some choice etchings and a few foreign photographs.  On the book-shelves were a few volumes of poetry, and the prose of George Eliot and our own Hawthorne.  Hanging on pegs in the corner of the simple army room, covered by a curtain, were some heavy outer-garments,—­an ulster, a travelling coat and cape of English make, and one or two dresses that were apparently too thick to be used at this season of the year.  He drew aside the curtain one moment, took a brief glance at the garments, raised the hem of a skirt to his lips, and turned quickly away.  A door led from the room to the one behind it,—­a spare bedroom, evidently, that was lighted only from the back of the house and had no side-window at all.  Another door led to the hall, a broad, old-fashioned affair, and crossing this he stood in the big front room occupied by the colonel and his wife.  This was furnished almost as luxuriously (from an army point of view) as that of Miss Renwick, but not in white and yellow.  Armitage smiled to see the evidences of Mrs. Maynard’s taste and handiwork on every side.  In the years he had been the old soldier’s adjutant nothing could have exceeded the simplicity with which the colonel surrounded himself.  Now it was something akin to Sybaritish elegance, thought the captain; but all the same he made his deliberate survey.  There was the big dressing-table and bureau on which had stood that ravished picture,—­that photograph of the girl he loved which others were able to speak of, and one man to appropriate feloniously, while yet he had never seen it.  His impulse was to go to Jerrold’s quarters and take him by the throat and demand it of him; but what right had he?  How knew he, even, that it was now there?  In view of the words that Chester had used towards him, Jerrold must know of the grievous danger in which he stood.  That photograph would prove most damaging evidence if discovered.  Very probably, after yielding to his vanity and showing it to Sloat he meant to get it back.  Very certainly, after hearing Chester’s words he must have determined to lose no time in getting rid of it.  He was no fool, if he was a coxcomb.