Scrymgeour's boudoir after it had ceased to deserve
the censure, just as we called Moggridge Jimmy because he was Jimmy to
some of us as a boy. Scrymgeour deserted his fine rooms in Bayswater for
the inn some months after the Arcadia Mixture had reconstructed him, but
his chambers were the best on our stair, and with the help of a workman
from the Japanese Village he converted them into an Oriental dream. Our
housekeeper thought little of the rest of us while the boudoir was
there to be gazed at, and even William John would not spill the coffee
in it. When the boudoir was ready for inspection, Scrymgeour led me to
it, and as the door opened I suddenly remembered that my boots were
muddy. The ceiling was a great Japanese Christmas card representing the
heavens; heavy clouds floated round a pale moon, and with the dusk the
stars came out. The walls, instead of being papered, were hung with a
soft Japanese cloth, and fantastic figures frolicked round a fireplace
that held a bamboo fan. There was no mantelpiece. The room was very
small; but when you wanted a blue velvet desk to write on, you had only
to press a spring against the wall; and if you leaned upon the desk the
Japanese workmen were ready to make you a new one. There were springs
everywhere, shaped like birds and mice and butterflies; and when you
touched one of them something was sure to come out. Blood-colored
curtains separated the room from the alcove where Scrymgeour was to rest
by night, and his bed became a bath by simply turning it upside down. On
one side of the bed was a wine-bin, with a ladder running up to it. The
door of the sitting-room was a symphony in gray, with shadowy reptiles
crawling across the panels; and the floor--dark, mysterious--presented
a fanciful picture of the infernal regions. Scrymgeour said hopefully
that the place would look cozier after he had his pictures in it; but he
stopped me when I began to fill my pipe. He believed, he said, that
smoking was not a Japanese custom; and there was no use taking Japanese
chambers unless you lived up to them. Here was a revelation. Scrymgeour
proposed to live his life in harmony with these rooms. I felt too sad at
heart to say much to him then, but, promising to look in again soon, I
shook hands with my unhappy friend and went away.

[Illustration]

It happened, however, that Scrymgeour had been several times in my rooms
before I was able to visit him again. My hand was on his door-bell when