“Look ’ere, Paul Pangbutt--the boys have come to give old Jack Lawrence a house-warming--down the street, you know.” “Indeed!” said Pangbutt icily; and with cutting coldness he added: “I presume that this news should interest me!” Rippley was hugely pleased: “Yes, rather! He’s setting up a studio almost next door to you--but the old rip isn’t in this evening; so, as we have the beer and stuff in a dray outside, we’ve converted it into a surprise party for you instead, d’you see?” Pangbutt’s blanched face was moved to a sneer: “Really, so spontaneous an honour cannot but flatter,” he said. “Of course,” roared Rippley jovially. He went up to his sulky host and slapped him on the shoulder. It floated through Pangbutt’s mind with something like a twinge of jealousy that they had never given _him_ a house-warming when he took his studio, months ago now. “Oh, yes,” he said bitterly--“make yourselves at home.” The sculptor gave him a sounding thump on the shoulder: “That’s a good generous fellow!” cried he, and winked at the others. “All the scum of Bohemia is coming here to-night. We have invited ’em--in your name.... _Of course_ you don’t mind. I _said_ you wouldn’t.” Through the open door there came gusts of hilarity from below, and the sound of horseplay. The sculptor chuckled. Pangbutt scowled: “Oh, no--treat the place like a pot-house,” he said. “Of course I am delighted,” he added ironically. Rippley turned and winked an eye solemnly at the others; he burst into a jovial laugh, and gripping Pangbutt’s shoulder with his great hand: “Good old Paul,” cried he--“of course you are!... But we found old Lovegood before us--the sly old dog.” He left his sulky host, and, walking up to Lovegood, punched his embarrassed bulk in the ribs. Lovegood strode over to the brooding man: “Pangbutt,” he said--“you would rather have them go. Why don’t you say so?” “No, no--let them alone.” He waved the subject aside irritably with his hand, and walked impatiently to the fireplace, where he turned and, leaning his shoulders against the mantel, scowled at the riot. There was a shuffle of feet, as of men carrying a heavy burden, and, with a roar, the noisy crew swung through the great doorway and came swarming into the room, headed by half a dozen that carried a full beer-barrel on slings, followed by a red-headed fellow frantically blaring a trombone before another who carried Andrew Blotte upon his shoulders, crowned with a wreath of roses and considerably the worse for strong liquors. They gave their sulking host a shout as they streamed in. The rest of the noisy crew, talking and laughing, escorted a couple of pretty but gauche girl-models, who were awkwardly carrying bouquets as they might have carried cabbages; long streamers of coloured ribbon hung from their nosegays.