A door opened, and the echoing tramp of feet on the carpetless boards of the corridor outside ushered the entrance of two men into a large room, wholly devoid of furnishment--the plaster of its walls as bare as its ceiling and floor. The short, stout, red-faced man shut the door with a slam that resounded through the empty place, thrust his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and said with pride: “Now, sir; how do you call that for a stoodio!” In the fading daylight the younger man, dandified, self-possessed, deliberate, dressed in the severest high fashion of the day, stepped to the end of the great empty place and surveyed it calmly: “Ah, Mr. Malahide--it is the sort of room I should delight to furnish as I liked--and then live in it,” he said; and he sighed: “I have the palatial instincts.” He spoke with a charm of accent and of manner that drew the frank admiration of the vulgar other; indeed, the stout Mr. Malahide was looking at a handsome young Englishman in all the first graceful vigour of early manhood--for Bartholomew Doome’s lithe slender build gave him an easy carriage of the body that told of well-knit strength, and put aside the hint of effeminacy suggested by the great beauty of the head. As the stout man had said to his wife this very morning: “You could find it in your heart to stroke him down with yer ’and, like a dam race-’orse.” Mr. Malahide pushed his silk hat back upon his florid head and looked thereby even more vulgar than his Maker had intended him: “Well,” said he--“ye like it, eh, sir?” The smile still flickered about Bartholomew Doome’s lips: “May I ask, Mr. Malahide,” he said drily--“what I am doing here?” The fat little man kicked out his legs: “That’s just it, sir,” said he--“that’s just it. Well, you see, it’s this way. Now, Mr. Doome, I’m a pretty good-hearted, but rather damn vulgar man----” He waited patiently for an answer. Doome looked at him steadily: “Yes,” said he--“by the splendour of God, you are.” “Good. Now, sir, I’ve made my bit of money in the house-furniture business already; but Tankerton Wollup he’s at the top; and he’s dead sure to become a bloomin’ baronet; and he’s as vulgar as I am.” He paused, eyeing the floor at his feet, meditatively. Doome nodded: “I will only interrupt you to question the accuracy of your statements, Mr. Malahide,” he said grimly. Pompey Malahide laughed: