A quiet cozy little room, up several narrow flights of stairs--a snug little room, though slightly fusty--with two sides occupied by law books bound in calf. There were sundry maps and old engravings hung here and there; a bust of a Chancery judge, a ditto of Shakspeare; a coal-box, a couple of easy chairs, a table littered with papers, and a mantel-piece covered with visiting and invitation cards. When the sombre curtains were drawn, and that mysterious old woman, who turned up from some dark corner outside the door, was permitted to retire for the night, and Mr. Williamson produced the sugar and lemons and whisky--when the kettle was singing on the fire--then indeed was that little room snug, and cosy, and everything else that is comfortable. “It is pleasant to talk to a simple-hearted young fellow like you,” said Mr. Williamson upon one of those evenings prior to the sudden death of Mr. Tallant. Paul smiled and sipped the whisky. “And so you think, notwithstanding all your troubles, that it is a good thing to have been born?” “I do,” said Paul, modestly. “You think an all-wise Providence conferred a great boon upon you when He called you into existence, and all that sort of thing?” “Of course,” said Paul. “You would not, could you now select, be blotted out for ever, and have all your chances or hopes of a future annihilated?” “Oh, no!” said Paul. “Happy youth,” said Mr. Williamson, smoking and blowing the smoke up amongst his books bound in calf. “Well, not particularly happy that I know of,” said Paul; “but still, with all respect to you, I thank God I am happier than some people.” “And you don’t think the Bible is Hebrew mythology? In fact, you are a virtuous, good boy. You think it’s a good thing, too, to have been born an Englishman, and that we are better and braver than other people, and all that stuff?” “All this I steadfastly believe,” said Paul, remembering a passage in the Prayer-book. “Very well; I shall not try to influence your orthodox views, and I will endeavour to promote your temporal prosperity. You like the _Pyrotechnic_ office, and you think you will get on?” “Yes, thank you, I do,” said Paul. “I suppose, like most fellows connected with newspapers in any way, you would rather be on the literary staff? You would like to be giving forth your own opinions, and see them printed in long columns of leaded type?” said the barrister, who was evidently highly amused with Paul, whom he seemed to regard as an agreeable study. “I sometimes think I should be glad if I could write,” said Paul. “There’s nothing in it, my boy--nothing at all. At first there is a kind of satisfaction about the thing; but it all arises from conceit: it is all vanity and vexation of spirit, as the Preacher says. It is all very well if you can obtain one or two comfortable engagements, with permission to write pretty well what you please; and when you can combine literature, as I do, with another distinguished profession.”