There was a noise of rapid footsteps up the stairs, and a cheerful voice was heard exchanging a word of greeting with the lady in the fancy shop below. He was expecting a few acquaintances that evening.
The door opened.
“The deuce, how dark it is! It looks like hell here, with that terrific fire. Where are you hiding, Vere?” cried Paul van Raat, standing by the open door.
Vincent rose and walked towards him, and grasped Paul by the shoulders.
“Here, old chap, don’t be alarmed. Wait, I’ll light the lamp.”
He sought some matches, lit a couple of old-fashioned lamps on the mantelpiece, and blinked his eyes, dazzled by the sudden light. The Dantesque halo that hung over the room was soon dispelled by the yellow petroleum light, but the bright burning fire still looked sociable, although the antique sideboard with the silver ewer and [[90]]a few Oriental objects of art looked sorely out of place among the old-fashioned furniture in threadbare red Utrecht velvet, and the antique pieces of china seemed like so many misplaced aristocrats among the ugly, cheap engravings and common oleographs which lined the walls.
It was the first time that Paul had entered Vincent’s abode, and he looked admiringly at the ewer and the china plates.
“Yes, they are not bad; the ewer is cracked, but the workmanship is very fine, do you see? I called upon an old Jew dealer to-day; I want to get rid of the things. You see, they only take up the room. He was going to call to-morrow. Or perhaps you would like them? They are to be had.”
“No; my room—or my studio, if you like—is too full already.”
“Well, a few plates more or less——”