m Davis Blake.'

He said it as one might say, 'I am Mr. Gladstone'--or Lord
Salisbury--or Bismarck--with dignity, with an inflection of conscious
greatness, it is true, but with neither haughtiness nor ostentation.
We, however, are singularly ignorant of contemporary English
literature in the Latin Quarter--our chief reading matter, indeed,
being Maupassant and _Le Petit Journal pour Rire_--and though, as we
shortly learned, here was a writer whose works were for sale at every
bookstall in the United Kingdom, lavishly pirated in the United
States, and distributed far and wide by Baron Tauchnitz on the
Continent, his announcement left us unenlightened.

'Painter?' demanded Chalks.

A shadow crossed his face. 'You are surely familiar with my name?'

'Never heard it that I know of,' answered Chalks; then, raising his
voice, 'Any gentleman present ever heard of--what did you say your
name was?' he asked in an aside; and being informed, went on, 'of Mr.
Davis Blake?'

No one spoke.

'Mud?' queried Chalks.

'Mud?' repeated Mr. Blake, perplexed.

'He means to enquire whether you are a sculptor,' ventured I.

'A sculptor--certainly not.' He spoke sharply, throwing back his head.
'It is impossible that no one here should have heard of me; and this
pretence of ignorance is meant as a practical joke. I am a
novelist--one of the best known novelists living. I am Davis Blake,
the author of "Crispin Dorr," and "The Card Dealer." My portrait, with
a short biographical sketch, appeared in the _Illustrated Gazette_ not
a month ago. My works have been translated into French, German,
Russian, and Italian. Of "The Card Dealer," upwards of thirty thousand
copies have been sold in Great Britain alone.'

'Ah, then you could well afford to stand us drinks,' was Chalks's
cheerful commentary. 'We ain't much on book-learning, this side the
river, Mr. Blake. We're plain blunt men, that ain't ashamed of manual
labour--horny-handed sons of toil, in short. But we're proud to meet a
cultivated gentleman like yourself, all the same, and can appreciate
him when met.'

Blake laughed rather lamely, and responded, 'I perceive that you are a
humorist. Your countrymen are great admirers of my writings; of
"Crispin Dorr," I am told, there are no fewer than three rival
editions in the market; and I have received complimentary letters and
requests for my autograph, from all parts of the United States, I
think that the quality of American humour h