tincturing our amusement. If his self-conceit was comical, by reason
of its candour, it was surely pitiable, because of the poor, dwarfed
starveling of a soul that it revealed. Here was a man, with life in
his veins, and round about him the whole mystery and richness of
creation--and he could seriously think of nothing save how, by his
dress, by his speech, his postures, to render himself the observed of
all observers!

Wherever he went, in whatever company he found himself, that was the
sole thing he cared for--to be the centre of attention, to be looked
at, listened to, recognised and admired as a celebrity. And if the
event happened otherwise, if he had ground for the suspicion that the
people near him were suffering their minds to wander to another topic,
his face would darken, his attitude become distinctly one of rancour.
With Chalks, familiarity bred boldness; he made the latter days of
Blake's sojourn amongst us exceedingly unhappy.

'Now, Mr. Blake,' he would say, 'we are going to talk of art and love
and things in general for a while, to rest our brains from the author
of "Crispin Dorr." Please step into the corner there and sulk.'

And he had a bit of slang, which he set to a bar of music, and would
sing, as if in absence of mind, whenever the conversation lapsed, to
the infinite annoyance of Mr. Blake:--

'Git your hair cut--git your hair cut--git your hair cut--_short_!'

'If that is meant for me,' Blake once protested, 'I take it as
discourteous in the last degree.'

'My dear sir, you were twenty thousand leagues from my thoughts. And
as for getting your hair cut, I beseech you, don't. You would shear
away the fabric of our joy,' Chalks answered.

Blake had a curiously exaggerated notion of his fame; and his jealousy
thereof surpassed the jealousy of women. He took it for granted that
everybody had heard of him, and bridled, as at a personal affront,
when he met any one who hadn't. If you fell into chance talk with him,
in ignorance of his identity, he could not let three minutes pass
without informing you. And then, if you appeared not adequately
impressed, he would wax ill-tempered. He was genuinely convinced that
his person and his actions were affairs of consuming interest to all
the world. To be something, to do something, perhaps he honestly
aspired; but to _seem_ something was certainly his ruling passion.

One Sunday afternoon, at his suggestion, we went together to the
studio of Z----, an