arger acceptance of
life.

In spite of his sunny nature he had a certain amount of jealousy and
envy in him which was always brought to light by the popular success of
those whom he had known and measured. I remember his telling me once
that he wrote his first play because he was annoyed at the way Pinero
was being praised--"Pinero, who can't write at all: he is a
stage-carpenter and nothing else. His characters are made of dough; and
never was there such a worthless style, or rather such a complete
absence of style: he writes like a grocer's assistant."

I noticed now that this trait of jealousy was stronger in him than ever.
One day I showed him an English illustrated paper which I had bought on
my way to lunch. It contained a picture of George Curzon (I beg his
pardon, Lord Curzon) as Viceroy of India. He was photographed in a
carriage with his wife by his side: the gorgeous state carriage drawn by
four horses, with outriders, and escorted by cavalry and cheering
crowds--all the paraphernalia and pomp of imperial power.

"Do you see that?" cried Oscar angrily; "fancy George Curzon being
treated like that. I know him well; a more perfect example of plodding
mediocrity was never seen in the world. He had never a thought or phrase
above the common."

"I know him pretty well, too," I replied. "His incurable commonness is
the secret of his success. He 'voices,' as he would say himself, the
opinion of the average man on every subject. He might be a leader-writer
on the _Mail_ or _Times_. What do you know of the average man or of his
opinions? But the man in the street, as he is called to-day, can only
learn from the man who is just one step above himself, and so the George
Curzons come to success in life. That, too, is the secret of the
popularity of this or that writer. Hall Caine is an even larger George
Curzon, a better endowed mediocrity."

"But why should he have fame and state and power?" Oscar cried
indignantly.

"State and power, because he is George Curzon, but fame he never will
have, and I suspect if the truth were known, in the moments when he too
comes face to face with his own soul, as you say, he would give a good
deal of his state and power for a very little of your fame."

"That is probably true, Frank," cried Oscar, "that is almost certainly
the crumpled rose-leaf of his couch, but how grossly he is
over-estimated and over-rewarded.... Do you know Wilfred Blunt?"

"I have met him," I replied, "b