It would be difficult to imagine a room more suitable for an artistic function like Barney’s “At Homes” than Barney’s studio. The apartment was large, and it contained many nooks and crannies that the Tottenham Court Road furnisher had taken excellent advantage of. There were neat little corners for two; there were secluded alcoves fitted with luxurious seats; there were most alluring divans everywhere, and on the floor were the softest of Oriental rugs. Eastern lamps shed a subdued radiance over retired spots that otherwise would have been dark, and wherever a curtain could hang, a curtain was hung. Barney’s most important works, framed in gold and silver or the natural wood, were draped effectively, and to prevent the non-artistic mind from making a fool of itself by guessing at the subject, the name of each picture stood out in black letters on the lower part of the frame. There were “Battersea Bridge at Midnight,” “Chelsea in a Fog,” “Cheyne Row at Three A. M.,” and other notable works, while one startling picture of the Thames in crimson and yellow showed Barney’s power to accomplish a feat, which, if we may trust a well-known saying, has been tried by many eminent men, but has been rendered unsuccessful by the incombustible nature of that celebrated river. Barney’s “afternoon” was at its height, when the bell was rung by a young man who had not received a card; but “Buttons” did not know that, and he swung open the door with a florid flourish as if the visitor had been a duke. The incomer was as much taken aback by the triumph of nature and art at the head of the stair as Haldiman had been, but although he paused for a moment in wonder, he did not retreat. He had a vague notion for an instant that it might be Barney himself, but reflection routed that idea. He was entering a world unfamiliar to him, but his common sense whispered that the inhabitants of this world did not dress in such a fashion. “Is Mr. Barnard Hope at home?” he asked. “Yessir,” answered the boy, with a bow and a wave of his hand. “This is his day. What name, sir?” “Marsten.” “Mr. Marsten,” shouted the boy up the stair. The decorated sphinx at the top was uninfluenced by the announcement, but a less resplendent menial appeared, who held back the heavy curtains as Marsten mounted the stair, and, when he entered, his name was flung ahead of him upon the murmur of conversation within. The sight that met Marsten’s eye as he entered the studio was rather disconcerting to a diffident man, but he was relieved to notice, after a moment’s breathless pause beyond the threshold, that nobody paid the slightest attention to him.