It was a hot, close, Manchester afternoon. Scarcely a breath of air was stirring. The smoke pressed heavily down upon the thick, yellow air. Faintly the coppery sunbeams tried to struggle through it, and wavered, and seemed to fail. There was a roar and a din in the much-frequented street--all about the great black, grimy-looking buildings, shops, offices, and warehouses. Omnibuses, carts, and lorries were struggling in a ‘lock’ in the middle of the street, and two exhausted-looking policemen were trying to restore order. Sebastian’s next destination was over the way; but, surveying the scene before him, he saw no immediate prospect of getting over the way, and turned round towards the Royal Institution, as if to consult that building as to what he had better do. Three large boards, covered with placards, caught his eye. ‘Exhibition of Pictures,’ in large letters, stood at the top of the boards, while profuse details followed in smaller print below. ‘The pictures! Why not go in and have a look?’ he reflected, and straightway walked up to the door, paid his shilling, secured a catalogue, and ran up the steps. It was between three and four in the afternoon. If it had been sultry out of doors, it was much more so within. The rooms felt stiflingly hot, and the blaze of colour upon the walls was oppressive. There were not very many visitors present, and those who had come were going languidly round. The people who had secured seats upon the chairs or divans looked nearly asleep, and those who had not secured such seats were looking enviously at those who had, as if, with a little more provocation, they would forget conventionality and sit down on top of them.