“NOW, then,’ sneered he, “we must have a confiscation of property. But, first, let us take a peep into the studio.”

And putting the keys into his pocket, he walked into the library. I followed, whether with the dim idea of preventing mischief, or only to know the worst, I can hardly tell. My painting materials were laid together on the corner table, ready for to-morrow’s use, and only covered with a cloth. He soon spied them out, and putting down the candle, deliberately proceeded to cast them into the fire: palette, paints, bladders, pencils, brushes, varnish: I saw them all consumed: the palette-knives snapped in two, the oil and turpentine sent hissing and roaring up the chimney. He then rang the bell.

“Benson, take those things away,” said he, pointing to the easel, canvas, and stretcher; “and tell the housemaid she may kindle the fire with them: your mistress won’t want them any more.”