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In Which Michael Finsbury Enjoys a Holiday.
Punctually at eight o'clock next morning the lawyer rattled (according to previous appointment) on the studio door.

He found the artist sadly altered for the worse--bleached, bloodshot, and chalky--a man upon wires, the tail of his haggard eye still wandering to the closet.

Nor was the professor of drawing less inclined to wonder at his friend.
Michael was usually attired in the height of fashion, with a certain mercantile brilliancy best described perhaps as stylish; nor could anything be said against him, as a rule, but that he looked a trifle too like a wedding guest to be quite a gentleman.

Today he had fallen altogether from these heights.