onable crowd
was pouring in, I was standing in the central lobby, sketching away with
a will, when my friend Sir William Agnew, always early to arrive on such
occasions, happened to come up and soon interested me in conversation
about the genius of Millais and the beauties of Burne-Jones. In my
energetic manner I was debating a matter of some little interest when my
eye caught that of Mr. Comyns-Carr, who, with his newly-selected hat on,
was standing close by and regarding me with an expression of
indescribable horror. "What is the matter with Carr?" I observed to
Agnew; "surely Sargent should be here and hand down that expression to
posterity." But when I followed his eyes as they passed sternly from
mine to the floor, my hat nearly sprang off my head at the sight which I
beheld! Forgetting that I held the bottle of ink in the hand with which
I had been suiting the action to the word in my animated harangue to Sir
William, I had splashed the virgin marble on which we were standing in
all directions with hideous stains of the blackest of liquids. In my
consternation I did not stay to see the incongruous figure of the
charwoman and bucket who was immediately introduced amid the _elite_ of
fashionable London, but fled incontinently from the gallery and, rushing
in where angels fear to tread, sought sanctuary in my accustomed haunt,
the Gallery of the House of Commons. There at least I thought I should
be safe. Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from my agitation, I
was making my way out of the House when I encountered a friend in the
Central Lobby. I was explaining to him the unfortunate _contretemps_
which had occurred at the New Gallery, and utterly forgot that I still
held the bottle of ink in my hand, and on the sacred floor we stood upon
I had perpetrated the offence again!

My only consolation for this chapter of accidents was that the
particular ink in my bottle is different from the ordinary writing
fluid, and leaves no stain behind it. It is in fact merely paint, and is
innocent of gall. There are inks, as there are other forms of
journalism, whose consequences are not so easily effaced or so harmless;
but like the caricaturist's work itself, the material with which it is
accomplished often looks blacker than it really is.

[Illustration: ORIGINAL IDEA AS SENT TO ME.
MY DRAWING OF IT IN _PUNCH_.]

Fortunately all this happened previous to the introduction of the ink I
use now, known as _Wa