"Warburton!" cried a high-pitched voice from the passage.

"Have you seen _The Art World_ ?" And there rushed into the room a tall, auburn-headed young man of five-and-twenty, his comely face glowing in excitement.

With one hand he grasped his friend's, in the other he held out a magazine.
"You haven't seen it! Look here! What d'you think of that, confound you!" He had opened the magazine so as to display an illustration, entitled "Sanctuary," and stated to be after a painting by Norbert Franks.
"Isn't it good?
Doesn't it come out well ?--deuce take you, why don't you speak ?" "Not bad--for a photogravure," said Warburton, who had the air of a grave elder in the presence of this ebullient youth.
"Be hanged! We know all about that.

The thing is that it's _there_.
Don't you feel any surprise?
Haven't you got anything to say?
Don't you see what this means, you old ragamuffin ?" "Shouldn't wonder if it meant coin of the realm--for your shrewd dealer." "For me too, my boy, for me too! Not out of this thing, of course.

But I've arrived, I'm _lance_, the way is clear! Why, you don't seem to know what it means getting into _The Art World_." "I seem to remember," said Warburton, smiling, "that a month or two ago, you hadn't language contemptuous enough for this magazine and all connected with it." "Don't be an ass!" shrilled the other, who was all this time circling about the little room with much gesticulation.