I threw into a pigeon-hole, a year or two ago—that would be fine for illustrations.'
'Is it for Mr. Glendinning you inquire?' said Pierre now, in a slow, icy tone, to the porter.
'Mr. Glendinning, sir; all right, ain't it?'
'Perfectly,' said Pierre mechanically, and casting another strange, rapt, bewildered glance at the easel. 'But something seems strangely wanting here. Ay, now I see, I see it:—Villain!—the vines! Thou hast torn the green heart-strings! Thou hast but left the cold skeleton of the sweet arbour wherein she once nestled! Thou besotted, heartless hind and fiend, dost thou so much as dream in thy shrivelled liver of the eternal mischief thou hast done? Restore thou the green vines! untrample them, thou accursed!—Oh my God, my God, trampled vines pounded and crushed in all fibres, how can they live over again, even though they be replanted! Curse thee, thou!—Nay, nay,' he added moodily—'I was but wandering to myself.' Then rapidly and mockingly—'Pardon, pardon!—porter; I most humbly crave thy most haughty pardon.' Then imperiously—'Come, stir thyself, man; thou hast more below: bring all up.'
As the astounded porter turned, he whispered to Millthorpe, 'Is he safe?—shall I bring 'em?'
'Oh, certainly,' smiled Millthorpe: 'I'll look out for him; he's never really dangerous when I'm present; there, go!'
Two trunks now followed, with 'L. T.' blurredly marked upon the ends.
'Is that all, my man?' said Pierre, as the trunks were being put down before him; 'well, how much?'—that moment his eyes first caught the blurred letters.
'Prepaid, sir; but no objection to more.'
Pierre stood mute and unmindful, still fixedly eyeing
