It was a fish dinner, and Barty ate and drank a surprising amount—and so did I, and liked it very much.
We were all late and hurried for the last train, some twenty of us—and Barty, Lord Archibald, and I, and a Colonel Walker Lindsay, who has since become a peer and a Field‑Marshal (and is now dead), were all pushed together into a carriage, already occupied by a distinguished clergyman and a charming young lady—probably his daughter; from his dress, he was either a dean or a bishop, and I sat opposite to him—in the corner.
Barty was very noisy and excited as the train moved off; he was rather tipsy, in fact—and I was alarmed, on account of the clerical gentleman and his female companion. As we journeyed on, Barty began to romp and play the fool and perform fantastic tricks—to the immense delight of the future Field‑Marshal. He twisted two pocket‑handkerchiefs into human figures, one on each hand, and made them sing to each other—like Grisi and Mario in the Huguenots—and clever drivel of that kind. Lord Archibald and Colonel Lindsay were beside themselves with glee at all this; they also had dined well.
Then he imitated a poor man fishing in St. James's Park and not catching any fish. And this really was uncommonly good and true to life—with wonderful artistic details, that showed keen observation.
I saw that the bishop and his daughter (if such they were) grew deeply interested, and laughed and chuckled discreetly; the young lady had a charming expression on her face as she watched the idiotic Barty, who got more idiotic with every mile—and this was to be the man who wrote Sardonyx!
As the train slowed into the London station, the bishop leant forward towards me and inquired, in a whisper,
"May I ask the name of your singularly delightful young friend?"
"His name is Barty Josselin," I answered.
"Not of the Grenadier Guards?"
"Yes."