The grand individual at the head of the stair had his uses, nevertheless; for when Haldiman and another, accepting Barney’s effusively cordial invitations to attend one of his “At Homes,” entered-the hall below, and saw this magnificent person standing like a resplendent statue before and above them, Haldiman gasped, “Great Heavens!” and groped his way out on the pavement again, followed by the no less astounded other, who was an artist also struggling along in the black and white line. The two exchanged glances when at a safe distance from the studio, pausing as they did so. Their amazement was almost too great for words, yet Haldiman remarked solemnly:
“I might have expected something of that sort. Imagine us dropping in there in these clothes! Lucky escape! I know a place on the King’s Road where there are fluids to drink. Let us go there and see if we can recover from this blow. O Barney, Barney, what deeds are done in thy name!”
So the living statue silently warned off Barney’s two Bohemian friends, who are all right in Paris, don’t you know, but not at all desirable when a man settles down to serious work and expects nobility at his receptions.
The calm dignity of Barney’s “man” was offset in a measure by the energetic activity of the boy in buttons who threw open the door with a flourish. “Buttons” might be likened to a torpedo boat, darting hither and thither under the shadow of a stately ironclad. While the left hand of the small boy opened the door, the right swept up to his cap in a semi-military salute that welcomed the coming and sped the parting guest.
It would be difficult to imagine a room more suitable for an artistic function like Barney’s “At Homes” than Barney’s studio. The apartment was large, and it contained many nooks and crannies that the Tottenham Court Road furnisher had taken excellent advantage of. There were neat little corners for two; there were secluded alcoves fitted with luxurious seats; there were most alluring divans everywhere, and on the floor were the softest of Oriental rugs. Eastern lamps shed a subdued radiance over retired spots that otherwise would have been dark, and wherever a curtain could hang, a curtain was hung. Barney’s most important works, framed in gold and silver or the natural wood, were draped effectively, and to prevent the non-artistic mind from making a fool of itself by guessing at the subject, the name of each picture stood out in black letters on the lower part of the frame. There were “Battersea Bridge at Midnight,” “Chelsea in a Fog,” “Cheyne Row at Three A. M.,” and other notable works, while one startling picture of the Thames in crimson and yellow showed Barney’s power to accomplish a feat, which, if we may trust a well-known saying, has been tried by many eminent men, but has been rendered unsuccessful by the incombustible nature of that celebrated river.
Barney’s “afternoon” was at its height, when the bell was rung by a young man who had not received a card; but “Buttons” did not know that, and he swung open the door with a florid flourish as if the visitor had been a duke. The incomer was as much taken aback by the triumph of nature and art at the head of the stair as Haldiman had been, but although he paused for a moment in wonder, he did not retreat. He had a vague notion for an instant that it might be Barney himself, but reflection routed that idea. He was entering a world unfamiliar to him, but his common sense whispered that the inhabitants of this world did not dress in such a fashion.
“Is Mr. Barnard Hope at home?” he asked.
“Yessir,” answered the boy, with a bow and a wave of his hand. “This is his day. What name, sir?”
“Marsten.”
“Mr. Marsten,” shouted the boy up the stair.