The anecdote-monger began talking at once about Sinfi, Wilderspin,
and Cyril Aylwin, speaking of them in the most genial and
affectionate terms. In a few minutes, without withdrawing a word he
had said about either of them, he had entirely changed the spirit of
every word. At first I tried to resist his sophistry, but it was not
to be resisted. I ended by apologising to him for my stupidity in
misunderstanding him.
'My dear fellow,' said he, 'not a word, not a word. I admired the way
in which you stood up for absent friends. Didn't you, D'Arcy?'
At this the other broke out into another mellow laugh. 'I did. How's
your kinsman, and how's Wilderspin?' he said, turning to me. 'Did you
leave them well?'
We soon began, all three of us, to talk freely together. Of course I
was filled with curiosity about my new friends, especially about the
liar. His extraordinary command of facial expression, coupled with
the fact that he wore no hair on his face, made me at first think he
was a great actor; but being at that time comparatively ignorant of
the stage, I did not attempt to guess what actor it was. After a
while his prodigious acuteness struck me more than even his
histrionic powers, and I began to ask myself what Old Bailey
barrister it was.
Turning at last to the one called D'Arcy, I said. 'You are an artist;
you are a painter?'
'I have been trying for many years to paint,' he said.
'And you?' I said, turning to his companion.
'He is an artist too,' D'Arcy said, 'but his line is not painting--he
is an artist in words.'
'A poet?' I said in amazement.
'A romancer, the greatest one of his time unless it be old Dumas.'
'A novelist?'
'Yes, but he does not write his novels, he speaks them.'
De Castro, evidently with a desire to turn the conversation from
himself and his profession, said, pointing to D'Arcy, 'You see before
you the famous painter Haroun-al-Raschid, who has never been known to
perambulate the streets of London except by night, and in me you see
his faithful vizier.'
It soon became evident that D'Arcy, for some reason or other, had
thoroughly taken to me--more thoroughly, I thought, than De Castro
seemed to like, for whenever D'Arcy seemed to be on the verge of
asking me to call at his studio, De Castro would suddenly lead the
conversation off into another channel by means of some amusing
anecdote. However, the painter was not to be defeated in his
intention; indeed I noticed during the conversation that although
D'Arcy yielded to the sophistries of his companion, he did so
wilfully. While he forced his mind, as it were, to accept these
sophistries there seemed to be all the while in his consciousness a
perception that sophistries they were. He ended by giving me his
address and inviting me to call upon him.
'I am only making a brief stay in London,' he said; 'I am working
hard at a picture in the country, but business just now calls me to
London for a short time.'
With this we parted at the door of the restaurant.