It was a great pity that Mr. Aiken's domestic upset did not occur a few days later, because then Mr. Hughes's Idea would have had such a much clearer stage for its _début_. As it was, what with one thing and what with another, the mature discussion of this subject was delayed a full week. Next day Triggs had to go to Paris, and of course it was nonsense to attempt anything without him--for look at the clearness of that man's head! Then, when Triggs came back, a day later than expected, his aunt must needs invite her nephew down to Suddington Park, which is her place in Shropshire, which had earned for Mr. Triggs the name of The Pobble--you remember Aunt Jopiska's Park, if you read your Lear in youth--and which was an expectation of his, if he kept in favour with the old lady. Of course, the Idea didn't depend on Triggs, or any one man. No, thank you! But Triggs had a good business head on his shoulders, and was particularly sound on the subject of Premises. It is a singular and noticeable thing that whenever any great motive or scheme germinates in the human brain, that brain, before it has formulated the conditions thereof, or fully defined its objects, will begin to look at Premises, and while it is examining some very much beyond its means--in Piccadilly, for instance, or Old Bond Street--will feel that the project is assuming form, and that now we shall get on to really _doing_ something, and come to the end of this everlasting talk, talk, talk, that leads to nothing, and only sets people against us. So really very little could be done till The Pobble came back from Aunt Jopiska. When he did come back there was some other delay, but it's always well to be beforehand. The enthusiasts of this Idea could look at Premises; and did so. All this has little or nothing to do with the story. But it serves to individualize Mr. Hughes, who, but for it, would be merely a long artist with a goatee beard, who not infrequently looked in to smoke a pipe on the split wild boar whose head endangered the safety of self-warmers on Mr. Aiken's floor in the Studio near the stove where he found the Vestas that were all stuck together. Mr. Hughes was standing there, a good many weeks after our last date, chatting with Mr. Aiken, who was becoming quite slovenly and dirty with nobody to look after him--because, of course, Mrs. Parples, who came in by the day, hadn't the sense to see to anything; and, moreover, he was that snappy at every turn, there wasn't, according to Mrs. Parples, many would abear him.