didn't want to do it
at all. But--well, there, he said he'd do it to please me. And he
did it. And then Jimmy Whistler published that letter. A very shabby
trick--very shabby indeed.' Of course I do not vouch for the exact words
in which Watts-Dunton told me this tale; but this was exactly the tale
he told me. I expressed my astonishment. He added that of course he
'never wanted to see the fellow again after that, and never did.' But
presently, after a long gaze into the coals, he emitted a chuckle, as
for earlier memories of 'such a funny fellow.' One quite recent memory
he had, too. 'When I took on the name of Dunton, I had a note from him.
Just this, with his butterfly signature: Theodore! What's Dunton? That
was very good--very good.... But, of course,' he added gravely, 'I took
no notice.' And no doubt, quite apart from the difficulty of finding
an answer in the same vein, he did well in not replying. Loyalty to
Swinburne forbade. But I see a certain pathos in the unanswered message.
It was a message from the hand of an old jester, but also, I think,
from the heart of an old man--a signal waved jauntily, but in truth
wistfully, across the gulf of years and estrangement; and one could wish
it had not been ignored.

Some time after Whistler died I wrote for one of the magazines an
appreciation of his curious skill in the art of writing. Watts-Dunton
told me he had heard of this from Swinburne. 'I myself,' he said, 'very
seldom read the magazines. But Algernon always has a look at them.'
There was something to me very droll, and cheery too, in this picture of
the illustrious recluse snatching at the current issues of our twaddle.
And I was immensely pleased at hearing that my article had 'interested
him very much.' I inwardly promised myself that as soon as I reached
home I would read the article, to see just how it might have struck
Swinburne. When in due course I did this, I regretted the tone of the
opening sentences, in which I declared myself 'no book-lover' and avowed
a preference for 'an uninterrupted view of my fellow-creatures.' I felt
that had I known my article would meet the eye of Swinburne I should
have cut out that overture. I dimly remembered a fine passage in one of
his books of criticism--something (I preferred not to verify it) about
'the dotage of duncedom which cannot perceive, or the impudence of
insignificance so presumptuous as to doubt, that the elements of life
and literature are indivisibly