You can understand that I was considerably disturbed. First, why had I never heard of A. E. Barrett? Secondly, what sort of looking fellow was he? Thirdly, with all this talk about A. E. Barrett, however many sandwiches had I eaten? The last question seemed the most impossible to answer, so I said "eight," to be on the safe side, and went back to work.
In the evening I called upon Peter. My acquaintance of the afternoon had assumed too readily that I should allow myself to be on friendly terms with artists; but Peter's wife illustrates books, and they both talk in a disparaging way of our greatest Academicians.
"Who," I began at once, as I shook hands, "did I remind you of as I came in at the door?"
Peter was silent. Mrs. Peter, feeling that some answer was called for, said, "The cat."
"No, no. Now I'll come in again." I went out and returned dramatically. "Now then, tell me frankly, doesn't that remind you of A. E. Barrett entering his studio?"
"Who is A. E. Barrett?"
I was amazed at their ignorance.
"He's the well-known artist. Surely you've heard of him?"
"I seem to know the name," lied Peter. "What did he paint?"
"'Sunrise on the Alps,' 'A Corner of the West,' 'The Long Day Wanes'—I don't know. Something. The usual thing."