There was a painting-stand with quantities of shallow little drawers, some too full to open, others, again, too full to shut; there was a movable platform to put sitters on, covered with red cloth much disguised in dust; there was a small square table of new deal, and a large round table of dilapidated rosewood, both laden with sketch-books, portfolios, dog's-eared sheets of drawing paper, tin pots, scattered brushes, palette-knives, rags variously defiled by paint and oil, pencils, chalks, port-crayons--the whole smelling powerfully at all points of turpentine.
Finally, there were chairs in plenty, no one of which, however, at all resembled the other.

In one corner stood a moldy antique chair with a high back, and a basin of dirty water on the seat.

By the side of the fireplace a cheap straw chair of the beehive pattern was tilted over against a dining-room chair, with a horse-hair cushion.

Before the largest of the two pictures, and hard by a portable flight of steps, stood a rickety office-stool.

On the platform for sitters a modern easy chair, with the cover in tatters, invited all models to picturesque repose.