Meanwhile, the interviewer was excitedly going the round of his party to exhibit his trophy.
“Oscar Wilde’s on board, the great æsthete!” he said. “I’ve had a long talk with him. See, here’s his own autograph in my Baedeker. There he is, the big man talking to the one in a grey suit.”
The excitement spread, and soon we had the entire party standing in a ring, or perhaps I should say a halo, around the object of their worship, who though still talking animatedly missed nothing of it all, and by his beaming face seemed to enjoy his lionising. I suspect him, in fact, of amusing himself by playing up to it, for, seeing that some of his admirers were not only looking, but while doing their best to appear not to be doing so were also listening intently, his talk struck me as meant for them as much as for me. He worked off a witty saying or two which I had heard before, and just as I had seen him glance sideways at a big plate-glass Bond Street shop window to admire his figure or the cut of his coat, so he stole sideway glances at the faces around as if to see whether admiration of his wit was mirrored there.
Then he told stories of celebrities, literary or otherwise, of whom he spoke intimately, called some of them, as in the case of Besant and Whistler, by their Christian names, and so tensely was his audience holding its breath to listen, that when at Bingen he rose and said, “I’m getting off here,” one could almost hear the held breath “ough” out like a deflating tyre.
No sooner was he gone than the interviewer seated himself in the deck-chair vacated by Wilde, and inquired politely:
“Are you a lit-er-ary man, sir?”
“Why, yes,” I said, “I suppose so, in a way. That’s how I earn my living.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Certainly,” I said (meaning thereby “you may ask, but it does not follow that I shall tell you”). “I am afraid ‘Brown’ is not a very striking name, but don’t tell me you have never heard it, for there is nothing so annoys an author as that.”
He was a kindly man, and made haste to reassure me.