The tapestried walls showed sombrely rich, their glowing colour only half revealed by the ghostly light of the huge white candles that flamed on high, held aloft by great gilt candlesticks the heavily wrought feet of which stood reflected on the dark-stained floor. And the handsome sheaves of crystal lustres that hung from the ceiling glittered and sparkled aloft like hundreds of precious gems. The beautiful image of the Mary and the spangled ikons of the Russian Church, which stood on the suavely carved mantel, flanked by the pastel of a ballet-girl by Degas, and a frail nude beauty by Manet, gleamed mysterious--religious. Before the mantel, on huge iron dogs, was set a scarlet coffin. On the scarlet coffin sat Bartholomew Doome. About the room, seated at tables, young fellows were bawling a drinking chorus. Before Doome stood the weak-kneed figure of the bailiff, gorgeous in an ill-fitting livery that was a world too capacious for his meagre body. As the drunken fellow held the tankard of beer aloft he made a supreme effort to take a last high note--his voice cracked--he spilled the liquor on his upraised face, spluttered, coughed, tripped over his own feet, and fell--amidst a shout of laughter and loud cries of “Encore” from the assembled throng. Rippley and Fluffy Reubens carried the fallen man to a sofa and laid him upon it. There was a lull in the riot; and in the lull there arose from his chair, unsteadily, the figure of Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, rather the worse for drink. Holding a glass in his hand, he straddled over to Doome, where he sat on the scarlet coffin, and he uttered a silly laugh as he brought his vague legs to an unsteady halt. “Hullo, Ffolliott!” cried Doome. “What is it?” Ffolliott blew through dry red lips: “Civilization,” said he, with a racking hiccup--“civilization (hiccup) has its drawbacks.” “Yes, Ffolliott.” Doome laughed. “Civilization has its drawbacks--there is the hand mirror.” Ffolliott came nearer, and, disregarding the insinuation, added with drunken confidence: “D’you know, Doome--you don’t mind my saying so--but I believe you’re engaged.” “Nonsense, Ffolliott!” Doome got up from his grim bench and slapped the weak-limbed exquisite a sounding thump on the narrow shoulders with heavy jocular hand’s buffet, so that he spilled the liquor down the front of him. Ffolliott, when he had wiped himself dry with dandified handkerchief, said: “Oh--it’s no use your pretending to be so colossally gay, you know. I always notice that when a fellow makes a delirious fool of himself (hiccup) about a woman (hiccup) he becomes austere--morally austere.” “Hiccup!” said Rippley; and there was loud applause at the tables. Doome laughed: “You were always a comic ass, Ffolliott,” said he--“but when did you degenerate into a philosopher?”