upon it, I see even more clearly than at the
time that the artist was extraordinarily kind to me; to an obscure and
friendless youth, none too presentable, and little likely just then to
do him credit. I would prefer to set down here only that which I
understood and felt at the time. Perhaps that is not quite possible,
in the light of subsequently acquired knowledge and experience. This
much I can say: there was no hint at this time of any wavering or
diminution in the almost worshipful regard I felt for Mr. Rawlence.

Seen in his own chosen setting, he was the most magnificent person I
had met. Aestheticism of a pronounced sort was becoming the fashion of
the day in London; and, as I presently found, Mr. Rawlence followed
the fashions of London and Paris closely. Indeed, I gathered that at
one time he had settled down, determined to live and to end his days
in one or other of those Old World capitals. But after a year divided
between them, he had returned to Sydney, and gradually formed his
Macquarie Street home and social connections. No doubt he was a more
important figure there than he would have been in Europe. His private
income made him easily independent of earnings artistic or otherwise.
I apprehend he lived at the rate of about a thousand pounds a year, or
a little more, which meant a good deal in Sydney in those days. I
remember being told at one time that he did not earn fifty pounds in a
year as a painter; but, of course, I could not answer for that.

I think he derived his greatest satisfactions from the society of
young aspirants in art, literature, and journalism; and I incline to
think it was more to please and interest, to serve and to impress
these neophytes, than from any inclination of his own, that he also
assiduously cultivated the society of a few maturer men who were
definitely placed in the Sydney world as artists, writers, editors,
and so forth. But such conclusions came to me gradually, of course. I
had not thought of them during that delightfully exciting experience--my
first visit to the Macquarie Street studio.

The simple little dinner was for me a thrilling episode. The deft-handed
Chinaman hovering behind our chairs, the softly shaded table-lights, the
wine in tall, fantastically shaped Bohemian glasses, the
very food--all unfamiliar, and therefore fascinating: olives, smoked
salmon--to which I helped myself largely, believing it to be sliced
tomato--a cold bird of sorts, no slices of