“You needn’t put it at that, sir,” said he. “You’ve got a fizzing fine suicidal look on you, when you don’t smile, Sick-horse,” said Fluffy, painting away. “I’ve been pining for a good Judas Iscariot for years.... Don’t shift more than you can help.... Oh, about the census. Are you married?” The pale-faced man nodded gloomily--he was. “Tut, tut! How dreadful!” said Fluffy. “No wonder you’re ashamed of yourself. What’s become of the wife?” “She’s alive,” he said gloomily. Fluffy Reubens coughed: “No luck,” said he. “Any children?” “Fourteen.” “Good God!” said Fluffy Reubens. “I don’t always think so, guv’nor,” said the melancholy figure from the shadows. Reubens painted in silence for a long time. At last he got up and looked keenly at the man: “Empty?” he asked. The bailiff nodded--yes, he was very empty--he was always empty--he was used to it. “Look here, Sick-horse, you look so damn dramatic I must not put anything into you for half an hour yet--I haven’t quite finished. But after that we’ll have breakfast, eh?” The man smiled. Fluffy Reubens jumped up, upsetting his canvas: “For God’s sake, don’t do that!” cried he anxiously; “or we’re lost.... Quick! think of something else--think the coffee’s burnt--think the eggs are addled----” He flung down his brush: “Damnation! Judas Iscariot is dead,” he said. He went to the hall-door, bawled for the woman who looked after the house, and ordered breakfast from an eating-house close by: “For two,” he called. He gathered up the painting things sadly, to carry them into the great studio. The gloomy man on the oak chest coughed: “I’m real sorry, guv’nor; I’ll try the God-forsaken lay again,” said the wretched man huskily; “but I wish to God you hadn’t mentioned them sausages.” “No,” said Fluffy Reubens--“it would never be the same thing--and I haven’t the heart to kick you--even if it brought back Judas Iscariot.” Later in the morning, Fluffy Reubens wrote a telegram to Bartholomew Doome: “Bailiff in possession. Order a supper for about thirty here this evening. Whisk round London in cab and make all the boys come to an orgy. The bailiff looks ripping in that gorgeous livery out of your property wardrobe. The shoes do not fit, but his elastic-sided boots look stunning quaint at the end of the white stockings. Was afraid I’d never get his feet through the legs of the red plush breeches. I will do the rest. FLUFFY.” He wrote another to Rippley. CHAPTER XLIV _Wherein a Palace of Art disappears in the Night_ Bartholomew Doome’s great studio was in a haze with the smoking of much tobacco; and it were almost as though the lolling figures had smoked in church.