A wire was sent to Mr. Jackson, and on the day of the funeral I went down to ‘Ultima Thule,’ Wimbledon, to see if he had carried out his promise. He had. In the grounds, past the vinery, an outhouse had been cleaned and sanded, with cushions placed at intervals against the wall, and a little trough of milk. Nothing could have been more suitable or luxurious. “How’s that?” he said. “I’ve done it thoroughly.” But I noticed that he looked a little glum. “The only thing,” he said, “is the cats. First night they seemed all right; and the second, there were three of ’em left. But to-day the gardener tells me there’s not the ghost of one anywhere. It’s not for want of feeding. They’ve had tripe, and liver, and milk--as much as ever they liked. And cod’s heads, you know--they’re very fond of them. I must say it’s a bit of a disappointment to me.” As he spoke, a sandy cat which I perfectly remembered, for it had only half its left ear, appeared in the doorway, and stood, crouching, with its green eyes turned on us; then, hearing Mr. Jackson murmur, “Puss, puss!” it ran for its life, slinking almost into the ground, and vanished among some shrubs. Mr. Jackson sighed. “Perversity of the brutes!” he said. He led me back to the house through a conservatory full of choice orchids. A gilt bird-cage was hanging there, one of the largest I had ever seen, replete with every luxury the heart of bird could want. “Is that for the bullfinch?” I asked him. “Oh!” he said; “didn’t you know? The little beggar wouldn’t let himself be caught, and the second morning, when they went up, there he lay on the old chap’s body, dead. I thought it was very touchin’. But I kept the cage hung up for you to see that I should have given him a good time here. Oh, yes, ‘Ultima Thule’ would have done him well!” And from a bright leather case Mr. Jackson offered me a cigar. The question I had long been wishing to ask him slipped out of me then: “Do you mind telling me why you called your house ‘Ultima Thule’?” “Why?” he said. “Found it on the gate. Think it’s rather distingué, don’t you?” and he uttered his profound chuckle. “First-rate. The whole place is the last word in comfort.” “Very good of you to say so,” he said. “I’ve laid out a goodish bit on it. A man must have a warm corner to end his days in. ‘Ultima Thule,’ as you say--it isn’t bad. There’s success about it, somehow.” And with that word in my ears, and in my eyes a vision of the little old fellow in _his_ ‘Ultima Thule,’ with the bullfinch lying dead on a heart that had never known success, I travelled back to town. STUDIES OF EXTRAVAGANCE I.--THE WRITER