Corot, of whom he could talk until the small hours in the morning if an occasional drink and cigar were forthcoming.  He modelled little statuettes in wax, cupids and nymphs, and he designed covers for books.  He could do all these things a little, and not stupidly, although inefficiently.  He had been a volunteer, and therefore wrote on military subjects, and had on certain occasions been permitted to criticize our naval defences and point out the vices and shortcomings in our military system in the leading evening papers.  He was generally seen with a newspaper under his arm going towards Charing Cross or Fleet Street.  He never strayed further west than Charing Cross, unless he was going to a “picture show,” and there was no reason why he should pass Ludgate Circus, for further east there were neither newspapers nor restaurants.  He was quite without vanity, and therefore without ambition, Buddha was never more so, not even after attaining the Nirvana.  A picture show in Bond Street, a half-crown dinner at Simpson’s, or the Rainbow, coffee and cigars after, was all that he desired; give him that, and he was a pleasant companion who would remain with you until you turned him out, or in charity, for he was often homeless, allowed him to sleep on your sofa.

Sands was not a member of the Temple, but Hall’s rooms were ever a refuge to the weary—­there they might rest, and there was there ever for them a drink and a mouthful of food.  And there Sands had met the decayed barrister who held the rooms opposite; which, although he had long ceased to occupy, and had no use for, he still wished to own, if he could do so without expense, and this might be done by letting two rooms, and reserving one for himself.

The unwary barrister, believing in the solvency of whoever he met at Hall’s, intrusted his chambers to Sands, without demanding the rent in advance.  A roof to sleep under had been the chief difficulty in Sands’ life.  He thought not at all of a change of clothes, and clean linen troubled him only slightly.  Now almost every want seemed provided for.  Coals he could get from Hall, also occasional half-crowns; these sufficed to pay for his breakfast; a dinner he could generally “cadge,” and if he failed to do so, he had long ago learnt to go without.  It was hard not to admire his gentleness, his patience and forbearance.  If you refused to lend him money he showed no faintest trace of anger.  Hall’s friends were therefore delighted that the chambers opposite were let on conditions so favourable to Sands; they anticipated with roars of laughter the scene that would happen at the close of the year, and looked forward to seeing, at least during the interim, their friend in clean clothes, and reading “his copy” in the best journals.  But the luxury of having a fixed place to sleep in, stimulated, not industry, but vicious laziness of the most ineradicable kind.  Henceforth Sands abandoned all effort to help himself.  Uncombed, unwashed, in dirty clothes, he lay in an arm-chair through all the morning, rising from time to time to mess some paint into the appearance of some incoherent landscape, or to rasp out some bars of Beethoven on his violin.