“Ye’ll get naething o’ the kind. Ye’ll jist tak’ tea, and stretch yer hand like a Christian for ony pastry ye want,’ said I, and Duffy did it like a lamb. Oh! I had the better o’ him; the puir sowl never saw onything fancy in his life afore since the time Glenroy’s was shut in the New City Road, where the Zoo is. It was a rale’ divert. It was the first time ever he had a knife and fork to eat cookies wi’, and he thocht his teaspoon was a’ bashed oot o’ its richt shape till I tellt him that was whit made it Art. “‘Art,’ says he; ‘whit the mischief’s Art?’ “‘I can easy tell ye whit Art is,’ says I, ‘for it cost me mony a penny. When I got mairried, Duffy, haircloth chairs was a’ the go; the sofas had twa ends to them, and you had to hae six books wi’ different coloured batters spread oot on the paurlor table, wi’ the tap o’ yer weddin’-cake under a gless globe in the middle. Wally dugs on the mantelpiece, worsted things on the chair-backs, a picture o’ John Knox ower the kist o’ drawers, and ‘Heaven Help Our Home’ under the kitchen clock--that was whit Jinnet and me started wi’. There’s mony a man in Gleska the day buyin’ hand-done pictures and wearin’ tile hats to their work that begun jist like that. When Art broke oot----’ “‘I never took it yet,’ says Duffy. “‘I ken that,’ says I, ‘but it’s ragin’ a’ ower the place; ye’ll be a lucky man if ye’re no’ smit wi’t cairryin’ coals up thae new tenements they ca’ mansions, for that’s a hotbed o’ Art. But as I say, when Art broke oot, Jinnet took it bad, though she didna ken the name o’ the trouble, and the haircloth chairs had to go, and leather yins got, and the sofa wi’ the twa ends had to be swapped for yin wi’ an end cut aff and no’ richt back. The wally dugs, and the worsted things, and the picture o’ John Knox, were nae langer whit Jinnet ca’d the fashion, and something else had to tak’ their place. That was Art: it’s a lingerin’ disease; she has the dregs o’t yet, and whiles buys shilling things that’s nae use for ony-thing except for dustin’.’ “‘Oh! is that it?’says Duffy; ‘I wish I had a pie.’ “‘Ye’ll get a pie then,’ I tellt him, ‘but ye canna expect it here; a pie’s no becomin’ enough for the Room de Looks. Them’s no’ chairs for a coalman to sit on eatin’ pies.’ “We went doon the stair then, and I edged him into the solid meat department. There was a lassie sittin’ at a desk wi’ a wheen o’ different coloured bools afore her, and when the waitresses cam’ to her for an order for haricot mutton or roast beef or onything like that frae the kitchen, she puts yin o’ the bools doon a pipe into the kitchen, and the stuff comes up wi’ naething said. “‘Whit dae ye ca’ that game?’ asks Duffy, lookin’ at her pappin’ doon the bools; ‘it’s no’ moshy onywey.’ “‘No, nor moshy,’ I says to him. ‘That’s Art. Ye can hae yer pie frae the kitchen withoot them yellin’ doon a pipe for’t and lettin’ a’ the ither customers ken whit ye want.’