The room was large and oblong, and the atmosphere was heavy with the odors of oil and turpentine. The furniture consisted of a number of covered easels, several coarse hangings ornamented in bizarre designs, and a divan surmounted by an Oriental canopy. Over the door there was a row of death-masks in plaster, relieved against a strip of ebony, and from a pedestal in one corner a bust of Antinous smiled the world-worn smile of all the ages.
"Temper seems soured," remarked Ardly, raising himself and turning to survey Nevins. "What's up?"
Nevins smiled mysteriously, then waxed communicative.
"Saw Algarcife to-day," he said, carelessly.
"Oh! What did he say for himself?"
Nevins laughed.
"Does he ever say anything?" he demanded. "I asked him what he thought of the elections, and he replied that they did not come within the sphere of his profession."
Ardly grinned.
"Guess not," he ejaculated. "Was that all?"
"Oh, the rest was about as follows: I went to his house, you know, and told him I wanted his spiritual certificate as to your modesty and worth. I also observed that the newspapers had undertaken to throw moral search-lights indiscriminately around—"