His jaw dropped; and he stared miserably round the room.
Before him stood the vulgar overdressed figure of Mr. Isaac Tankerton Wollup, with his choleric eyes fixed upon him, bullock-like, bloodshot:
“You blighter!” said Mr. Isaac Tankerton Wollup.
The miserable man rubbed his drowsy eyes—he rubbed them again. His mouth was too dry to utter speech.
He was sitting on the top of a scarlet coffin, that stood on two chairs; and, with the solitary exception of these things, the room was wholly empty of furnishment.
He burst into tears.
“You bleating idiot!” The vulgar dealer’s eyes snapped contempt. “The house is empty as a money-lender’s unwritten promise. They loaded the vans in the night; and you slept through it all!... Get your legs out o’ the light!”
He struck the lean shins with his cane.
The poor abject fellow cried out, and, rising, like a whipped cur he slunk across the room, buried his face in his arm, and sobbed against the wall.
The bloodshot eyes of the company-promoter, as he stooped down putting his thick hands on his great fat thighs, peered at the white paint on the side of the scarlet coffin; there had been no haste, every letter was balanced and well-drawn, and the whole phrase told decoratively on the scarlet lacquer: Art in England is dead, it said. Try France.