h as he had read about but had never seen.

It was quite the proper garret for starving genius--small, bleak, bare,
but scrupulously clean. The floor was partially covered with scraps of
old carpet, faded and worn; the walls were entirely papered with
pictures from illustrated journals. One window, revealing endless rows
of dingy chimney-pots, was draped with shabby rep curtains of a dull
red. In one corner, behind an Indian screen, stood a narrow camp
bedstead, covered with a gaudy Eastern shawl, and also a large tin bath,
with a can of water beside it. Against the wall leaned a clumsy deal
bookcase filled with volumes well-thumbed and in old bindings. On one
side of the tiny fireplace was a horse-hair sofa, rendered less slippery
by an expensive fur rug thrown over its bareness; on the other was a
cupboard, whence Beecot rapidly produced crockery, knives, forks, a
cruet, napkins and other table accessories, all of the cheapest
description. A deal table in the centre of the room, an antique mahogany
desk, heaped high with papers, under the window, completed the
furnishing of Poverty Castle. And it was up four flights of stairs like
that celebrated attic in Thackeray's poem.

"As near heaven as I am likely to get," rattled on Beecot, deftly frying
the sausages, after placing his visitor on the sofa. "The grub will soon
be ready. I'm a first-class cook, bless you, old chap. Housemaid too.
Clean, eh?" He waved the fork proudly round the ill-furnished room. "I'd
dismiss myself if it wasn't."

"But--but," stammered Hay, much amazed, and surveying things through an
eye-glass. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get my foot on the first rung of Fame's ladder."

"But I don't quite see--"

"Read Balzac's life and you will. His people gave him an attic and a
starvation allowance in the hope of disgusting him. Bar the allowance,
my pater has done the same. Here's the attic, and here's my
starvation"--Paul gaily popped the frizzling sausages on a chipped hot
plate--"and here's your aspiring servant hoping to be novelist,
dramatist, and what not--to say nothing of why not? Mustard, there you
are. Wait a bit. I'll brew you tea or cocoa."

"I never take those things with meals, Beecot."

"Your kit assures me of that. Champagne's more in your line. I say,
Grexon, what are you doing now?"

"What other West-End men do," said Grexon, attacking a sausage.

"That means nothing. Well, you never did work at Torrington, so how c