tant door slammed, footsteps passed up and down the uncarpeted stairs, and snatches of migratory conversations drifted round his corner, while in some adjacent room a man was whistling cheerily. Mr. Ellice heard this last sound for some time before the idea occurred to him that it came apparently from the room at the door of which he waited. Room 142 might be inhabited, if not by its proper tenant. He would investigate, hoping for a seat and a more varied prospect than the blank wall before him; under which inspiration he knocked, and was promptly bidden to enter by an agreeable voice that seemingly succeeded to the gay whistle. Mr. Ellice turned the handle, but the door was fast.
"Give her a kick," said the pleasant voice within. "She sticks."
Mr. Ellice felt that the suggested kicking would detract from the dignity of his entrance, so, instead, he remarked firmly, "Be so obliging as to open the door. It appears to me to be locked."
There was a sound as of a chair pushed back raspingly on a bare floor, a quick tread across the room, and the door was opened.
"By Jove! it was locked, after all. Well, sir, what can I do for you?"
A tall young fellow, with bright brown eyes, a moustache to match, and closely-cropped brown hair, which, if allowed sufficient length, would curl, was the speaker. Upon his repressed locks a battered, soft-gray hat sat jauntily; in one hand he held a palette, wet with fresh colors, and an assortment of brushes, also a pacific sort of flat knife, limp and flexible.
Mr. Ellice's inner consciousness at once revealed to him that this was Mr. Roscoe, and he as swiftly admitted that Manette had spoken truly. He was very handsome, and the glance of his bright eyes was at once candid and winsome, though his brown velveteen coat was liberally smeared with paint, his long and slender hands were decorated with several high tints, and his trousers were undeniably shabby. Mr. Ellice was not insensible to the picturesque, and he felt that an artistic shabbiness was less objectionable than that known as genteel.
"Can you tell me when Mr. Roscoe is likely to return?" he asked, feigning ignorance as to the young man's identity, while observing him keenly.
"Why, he is in. I'm Mr. Roscoe, at your service."
"Ah, indeed! I have waited at your door, Mr. Roscoe, for some time, inferring from this," indicating the slate, "that you were out."
"Oh! I see. That's been there for a month, I guess. You should have knocked, anyhow," said Frank cheerfully, not offering to remove the delusive statement from his portal. "But walk in, Mr.—"
"My name is Ellice," said the old gentleman pointedly.
"Oh, by Jove! you don't say so! I remember now that Nettie did say in her note that you might drop in to-day. How are you, sir?" extending his hand cordially. "Walk right in." And he led the way into the studio, into the like of which apartment his guest had never before penetrated. There were draperies, odd bits of armor, casts, easels, paintings on the walls and on the floor, tilted and leaning against every available protuberance, sketches in every stage of incompleteness, a few desultory pieces of furniture, bric-à-brac of all sorts; and in the midst of this chaos was set an easel, upon which was a large canvas, and at this the artist had evidently been at work. The next revelation sent a thrill akin to horror through the old gentleman's veins. Upon a raised platform that extended across one side of the room was a young woman, robed in a scanty and clinging vestment of a vivid green hue, overshot with gold and scarlet. She was half reclining, coiled as it were in an intricate attitude, graceful yet inexplicable, and, though motionless, almost breathless, was certainly a living woman. Mr. Ellice, thinking of his daughter, felt the cold beads of outraged propriety start upon his brow, and his next remark was made in tones almost tragic in their suppressed reproach:
