the
ballet-nymph had no place among these chosen gems of art. On the dwarf
book-cases were none but works of pure inspiration, the best of old and
new, the kings of intellect and their gentlest courtiers. Fifteen years
had gone to the adorning of this sanctuary; of money, no great sum, for
Glazzard had never commanded more than his younger-brother's portion of
a yearly five hundred pounds, and all his tastes were far from being
represented in the retreat where he spent his hours of highest
enjoyment and endeavour. Of late he had been beset by embarrassments
which a man of his stamp could ill endure: depreciation of investments,
need of sordid calculation, humiliating encounters. To-day he tasted
the very dregs of ignoble anguish, and it seemed to him that he should
never again look with delight upon a picture, or feast his soul with
music, or care to open a book.

A knock at the door aroused him. It was a civil-tongued serving-woman
who came to ask if he purposed having luncheon at home to-day. No; he
was on the point of going forth.

Big Ben was striking twelve. At a quarter-past, Glazzard took a cab
which conveyed him to one of the Inns of Court. He ascended stairs, and
reached a door on which was inscribed the name of Mr. Stark, Solicitor.
An office-boy at once admitted him to the innermost room, where he was
greeted with much friendliness by a short, stout man, with gleaming
visage, full lips, chubby hands.

"Well, what is it now?" inquired the visitor, who had been summoned
hither by a note that morning.

Mr. Stark, with an air of solemnity not wholly jocose, took his
friend's arm and led him to a corner of the room, where, resting
against a chair-back, was a small ill-framed oil painting.

"What have you to say to that?"

"The ugliest thing I've seen for a long time."

"But--but--" the solicitor stammered, with indignant eagerness--"but do
know whose it is?"

The picture represented a bit of country road, with a dung-heap, a
duck-pond, a pig asleep, and some barn-door fowls.

"I know whose you _think_ it is," replied Glazzard, coldly. His face
still had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes looked as if they had but
just opened after the oppression of nightmare. "But it isn't."

"Come, come, Glazzard! you are too dictatorial, my boy."

Mr. Stark kept turning a heavy ring upon his finger, showing in face
and tone that the connoisseur's dogmatism troubled him more than he
wished to have it thought.

"Win