But when they entered the hall, Thurley gasped with amused dismay, for she had seldom seen such conglomeration and disorder. It was true there were pink marbleized walls, tall lapis lazuli pillars capped with gold and an emerald malachite cornice with a black baseboard in the big studio. In addition to the collection of rare eighteenth century furniture with needlepoint chairs and blue and silver hangings, the growing plants and endless bird cages filled with twittering English bullfinches, there were strewn carelessly rare Greek vases and Etruscan fragments, an ugly easel and modelling stand, spotted canvases carelessly lying about. On chairs, but more often on the floor, were jars of brushes, rare lithographs by Whistler, Puvis de Chavannes’ drawings, Meryon’s etchings and Conder’s painted silks. Half finished portraits and charcoal outlines of figures were pinned relentlessly on the walls, and a shaggy Airedale answering the name of Fencer came muzzling the guests in suspicious welcome and walked without concern on all of the treasures. The only books the room contained were a well worn Bible and a Human Anatomy. The curtains were twisted back into hideous shapes, some fastened with twine, others with artist’s thumb-tacks, and one was thrown over the cornice in gay disregard. “You see,” said Collin, “I never should have yielded to Caleb’s plea to have an artistic studio. By degrees, I have managed to move out some stuff and send it over to his lodge. He thrives on such things—color schemes and doing rooms over. But some fine day there will be a bonfire at Parva Sed Apta and, hoop-la, I’ll build a log cabin with nothing but glass for the roof and sit in the midst of the débris to paint the most wonderful pictures of women.” “Poor women, posing in your log cabin.” Polly pretended to be cross. “Now we must get this room to rights.” “Never.” He pushed her aside. “I’ll not allow a thing to be straightened. The rest of the house is like a bandbox and I spend as little time there as I can. But here is where I live.” Fencer lay down to roll over an etching as if emphasizing the statement. “Here,” corrected Collin, “is where _we_ live.” “Show Thurley Bliss’s portrait and then we’ll do up the dishes and cook our dinner—a fine sort of host you are.” “Cook had been meditating an elopement some time—a gentleman who works in a roundhouse, I believe, has been carrying the wedding ring in his pocket for days. The boy always envied my suits—and as he was offered more wages to go to Bermuda, I presume he thought the suits a bonus for having endured an artistic atmosphere ... oh, well, I’ll call up the agency to-morrow and order a fresh supply; they’ll stay a week anyhow and that takes me through the dinner I’m supposed to give on Wednesday—well, Thurley, are you much amused?”