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"Oh, he hasn't really done anything of the kind," chimed in old Deleglise in his rich, sweet voice. "He made that all up. It's just his fun; he's full of humour." "I am inclined to think that would be his idea of a joke," asserted the first speaker.
Old Deleglise would not hear of it; but a week or two later I noticed an addition to old Deleglise's studio furniture in the shape of a handsome old carved cabinet twelve feet high. "He really had done it," explained old Deleglise, speaking in a whisper, though only he and I were present. "Of course, it was only his fun; but it might have been misunderstood.
It rankled in my mind that to fit in with the foolish fad of old Deleglise, I the future Dickens, Thackeray and George Eliot, Kean, Macready and Phelps rolled into one, should be compelled to the performance of menial duties. On this morning of all others, my brilliant literary career just commenced, the anomaly of the thing appeared naturally more glaring.
The red-haired man, to whom Deleglise had introduced me on the day of my first meeting with the Lady of the train, was another of his most constant visitors. It flattered my vanity that the red-haired man, whose name was famous throughout Europe and America, should condescend to confide to me as he did and at some length the deepest secrets of his bosom.
Old Deleglise, treating the matter as a joke, pretending not to know who was the landlord, suggested he should apply to the agents for position as caretaker. Some furniture was found for him, and the empty house in Gower Street became his shelter.
"I have thirty years of fame," said the red-haired man "could I say world-wide?" He turned for confirmation to old Deleglise, who laughed. "I think you can." "If I could give it you would you exchange with me at this moment?" "You would be a fool if you did," he went on. "One's first success, one's first victory! It is the lover's first kiss.
"That was mine," said old Deleglise. "It was hung in the Academy thirty-six years ago, and bought for ten guineas by a dentist at Bury St. Edmunds. He went mad a few years later and died in a lunatic asylum. I had never lost sight of it, and the executors were quite agreeable to my having it back again for the same ten guineas. I used to go every morning to the Academy to look at it.
I found it difficult to recognise in her the flaming Fury that a few minutes before had sprung at me from the billows of her torn blue skirt. She shook hands with the red-haired man and kissed her father. "My daughter," said old Deleglise, introducing me to her. "Mr. Paul Kelver, a literary gent." "Mr. Kelver and I have met already," she explained. "He has been waiting for you here in the studio."
The door opened and old Deleglise entered, accompanied by a small, slight man with red hair and beard and somewhat watery eyes. Deleglise himself was a handsome old fellow, then a man of about fifty-five. His massive, mobile face, illuminated by bright, restless eyes, was crowned with a lion-like mane of iron-grey hair. Till a few years ago he had been a painter of considerable note.
"I suppose you are Miss Deleglise. It doesn't seem to me that you know how to treat a visitor." "Who are you?" she asked. "Mr. Horace Moncrieff," I replied. I was using at the period both my names indiscriminately, but for this occasion Horace Moncrieff I judged the more awe-inspiring. She snorted. "I know. You're the house-maid. You sweep all the crumbs under the mats."
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