It was here that Harry Artingale had taken most pains, as a very old friend and constant companion, to embellish the room with his cigar-ends. Here, too, he had at odd times shown his own love and reverence for art by improving some of the antique casts with whiskers and moustachios. There was a cast of Venus quite life-size, which, evidently for decorous reasons, he had dressed in a seventeenth-century brocade silk dress, from which she looked naively at a lay figure in Spanish costume and mantilla; while close by there was an Apollo Belvedere, half garbed in sixteenth-century armour, standing behind a large pair of jack boots that could not be put on. There were, in fact, a hundred playful little relics of Lord Artingale's diversions when in idle mood; one of the latest being the boring of a hole in a plaster Clytie's lips, for the insertion of a cigar, and another the securing of a long clay pipe and a beer bock in the hands of a Diana, from which a bow and arrow had been removed. "You see, he is sech a gent for his larks," said Burgess, a nobly bearded, herculean, ungrammatical being, who looked big and bold enough to attack a Nemsean lion, or stride to an encounter in a Roman amphitheatre, but who had about as much spirit as a mouse. Burgess was Magnus's factotum, valet and houseman; and an excellent cook. He was not clever at cleaning, but the artist rather liked that, especially as he could admirably make a bed, and in addition was one of the noblest-looking and most patient models in London. But now Burgess was developing a fresh facet in his many-sided character, namely that of nurse; and he had shown a sleeplessness and watchful care that were beyond praise. "How is he, my lord?" he said, as he opened the door to Artingale, some months after the occurrences in the last two chapters. "Well, my lord--" "Now look here, Burgess; haven't I told you a dozen times over to say `sir' to me when I'm here?" "Yes, sir, but these are serious times, and I only meant it out of respect." "I know--of course, Burgess; but isn't he better?" "He says he is, sir; and the doctor--he's only just this minute gone, sir." "Yes, I know. I saw his brougham." "The doctor says he's better, sir, as he has for months; but he do keep so low, and," continued the man in a despairing tone, "it ain't no matter what I cook or make up, or try to tempt him with, he don't seem to pick a bit." "Poor fellow!" muttered Artingale, handing his overcoat and hat to the man. "I did think this morning that he was coming round, sir, for he has had his colours and a canvas on the bed, and I had to prop him up. I don't know, sir, I--I--" The great Hercules of a fellow's voice changed, and he turned aside to hide the weak tears that gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, though they had not far to go before they were able to hide themselves in his beard.