A quiet cozy little room, up several narrow flights of stairs—a snug little room, though slightly fusty—with two sides occupied by law books bound in calf. There were sundry maps and old engravings hung here and there; a bust of a Chancery judge, a ditto of Shakspeare; a coal-box, a couple of easy chairs, a table littered with papers, and a mantel-piece covered with visiting and invitation cards.
When the sombre curtains were drawn, and that mysterious old woman, who turned up from some dark corner outside the door, was permitted to retire for the night, and Mr. Williamson produced the sugar and lemons and whisky—when the kettle was singing on the fire—then indeed was that little room snug, and cosy, and everything else that is comfortable.
“It is pleasant to talk to a simple-hearted young fellow like you,” said Mr. Williamson upon one of those evenings prior to the sudden death of Mr. Tallant.
Paul smiled and sipped the whisky.
“And so you think, notwithstanding all your troubles, that it is a good thing to have been born?”
“I do,” said Paul, modestly.
“You think an all-wise Providence conferred a great boon upon you when He called you into existence, and all that sort of thing?”
“Of course,” said Paul.
“You would not, could you now select, be blotted out for ever, and have all your chances or hopes of a future annihilated?”
“Oh, no!” said Paul.