"And hence these travels?"
"Yes. When I lost sight of you in Paris I hewed a new route to notice. I played at being successful, bought my own pictures through dealers—incog., of course—at enormous prices. That tickled the ears of the Press."
"But how about commission?"
"Oh, the dealers earned it, and my money was well invested. I became talked about. The public knew nothing of my talent, and people love to talk of what they understand least."
"You belittle yourself, Bentham. You felt your work was sound—that you were bound to become great."
"True; otherwise I could not have stooped to play the charlatan. Without it my work might as well have been rotten for all the public could judge. Charlatanism is the only 'open sesame' to the world's cave, once you get inside you may be as honest as you please. All is fair in love or art or war, and there is a consolation in knowing that one's aim is Jesuitical, and not merely base. Had it not been for Mrs Brune—good soul—and the gambling instinct, I might be still, like you and Grey's 'gem of purest ray serene,' flashing my facets in the desert."
From Mrs Brune's portrait he devolved on one or two others of persons distinguished in the art sphere, whose autographs, with cordial or extravagant expressions of devotion, scrambled octopus-wise over the card.
"And here," he said, handling an album bound in chicken skin, adorned with the grace of Watteau's rurality—"here are my Flower Martyrs."
"What does that mean?" asked I, knowing him for an eccentric of eccentrics.
"Don't you remember the quotation, 'Butchered to make a Roman holiday?' It struck me once I should like to make an index of the flower lives that had been sacrificed on the Altar of Selfishness."