The room was a pleasant little country parlor, with three casement windows, a faded carpet on the floor, cane-seated furniture, and a jug of flowers on the mantel-shelf. The sunlight streamed in, but its heat was tempered by the delicious breeze. The Honorable Craven Black was not in the room, but there were vestiges of his occupancy on every side. Upon a small table stood his massive dressing case with mirror and brushes mounted in exquisitely carved ivory, and with boxes and bottle-stoppers of finely chased and solid gold. All the appointments of the large case were luxurious in the extreme, and Rufus thought bitterly that the sum which that Sybaritic affair had cost would be a fortune to him in his own present destitution. A beautiful inlaid writing case, a tobacco jar of the finest Sevres porcelain, a Turkish pipe mounted in gold and amber, a liqueur case, and various other costly trifles, were scattered lavishly about. The Honorable Craven Black had never denied himself a luxury in his life, and these things he carried with him wherever he went, as necessary to his comfort and happiness. Rufus Black’s lips curled as he looked on these luxuries and mentally calculated their cost. He was in the midst of his calculation when the door of the adjoining bedroom was opened from within, and his father came out, habited in slippers and dressing-gown, and with an Indian embroidered cap of scarlet and gold poised lightly on his fair head. His light eyes opened a little wider than usual as he beheld his son, and his usual cynical smile showed itself disagreeably around his white teeth. “So you’ve come at last, have you?” he exclaimed. “I expected you yesterday.” “I received your letter this morning, soon after breakfast, sir,” answered Rufus, “and I came on at once in the express train. I have changed my lodgings from the one you knew, and the letter was sent on from my old to my new address.” Mr. Black eyed his son critically, his cynical smile deepening. “You have a general out-at-the-elbows look,” he observed. “You’ve gone down hill since I threw you over. You look hungry and desperate!” “I am both,” was the reply, in a reckless tone. “And I have reason to be. I am starving!” Mr. Black flung himself into the only easy chair the room afforded, and made a gesture to his son to be seated upon the couch. Rufus obeyed. “You are in the mood I hoped to find you,” declared the father, with a disagreeable laugh. “Desperate--starving! That is better than I expected. What has become of all your fine anticipations of wealth and fortune achieved with your brush? You do not find it easy to paint famous pictures?”