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Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan. O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born. I met him one day in the south city markets buying a tin of Neave's food six weeks before the wife was delivered. En ventre sa mère, says J. J. Do you call that a man? says the citizen. I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.
There was hardly a poor bit in the lot; and my wonder grew at Neave's madness. All over Europe, dealers began to be fighting for the spoils; and all kinds of stuff were palmed off on the unsuspecting as fragments of the Daunt collection! Meanwhile, what was Neave doing? For a long time I didn't hear, and chance kept me from returning to Rome.
Oh, it's a poignant case, but not a common one; for the next-best-thing usually wins... You see, the worst of Neave's state was the fact of his not being a mere collector, even the collector raised to his highest pitch of efficiency.
You remember Neave's hands thin, sallow, dry, with long inquisitive fingers thrown out like antennae? Whatever they hold bronze or lace, hard enamel or brittle glass they have an air of conforming themselves to the texture of the thing, and sucking out of it, by every finger-tip, the mysterious essence it has secreted.
Trust old Daunt for that! I was in Rome the following spring, and you'd better believe I looked him up. A big porter glared at me from the door of the Palazzo Neave: I had almost to produce my passport to get in. But that wasn't Neave's fault the poor fellow was so beset by people clamouring to see his collection that he had to barricade himself, literally.
But no! the Daunt collection was almost above criticism; and as we passed from one object to another I saw there was no mistaking the genuineness of Neave's pride in his possessions. The ripe sphere of beauty was his, and he had found no flaw in it as yet... A year later came the amazing announcement the Daunt collection was for sale. Every stick and stone was to go under the hammer.
In most cases they are Lee-Metfords, and not Mausers. The Boers have, of course, captured quantities of our rifles and ammunition in convoy "mishaps" of various dates. Spent the evening in trying cooking experiments with mealy flour and some Neave's Food, which one of us had. One longs for a change of diet from biscuit and plain meat, which, without vegetables, never seem to satisfy.
Half-way across the Horse Guards' Parade, he encountered George Oakleigh. "Hallo! Come and have some lunch with me, if you've nothing better to do," he said. "I haven't seen you for a long time." "Not since we met at Barbara Neave's," answered Oakleigh. "Where is she? I've quite lost sight of her." "They're all down at Crawleigh," said Eric.
Neave's taste was too exquisite for his means was like some strange, delicate, capricious animal, that he cherished and pampered and couldn't satisfy. "Don't you know those little glittering lizards that die if they're not fed on some wonderful tropical fly? Well, my taste's like that, with one important difference if it doesn't get its fly, it simply turns and feeds on me.
The Queen asked us when we were going on the Continent. She said it was some years since she saw me. She asked about Caroline Neave's Refuge, for which she has lately sent me the fifty pounds. This gave me an opportunity of thanking her.
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