The anecdote-monger began talking at once about Sinfi, Wilderspin, and Cyril Aylwin, speaking of them in the most genial and affectionate terms. In a few minutes, without withdrawing a word he had said about either of them, he had entirely changed the spirit of every word. At first I tried to resist his sophistry, but it was not to be resisted. I ended by apologising to him for my stupidity in misunderstanding him.
'My dear fellow,' said he, 'not a word, not a word. I admired the way in which you stood up for absent friends. Didn't you, D'Arcy?'
At this the other broke out into another mellow laugh. 'I did. How's your kinsman, and how's Wilderspin?' he said, turning to me. 'Did you leave them well?'
We soon began, all three of us, to talk freely together. Of course I was filled with curiosity about my new friends, especially about the liar. His extraordinary command of facial expression, coupled with the fact that he wore no hair on his face, made me at first think he was a great actor; but being at that time comparatively ignorant of the stage, I did not attempt to guess what actor it was. After a while his prodigious acuteness struck me more than even his histrionic powers, and I began to ask myself what Old Bailey barrister it was.
Turning at last to the one called D'Arcy, I said. 'You are an artist; you are a painter?'
'I have been trying for many years to paint,' he said.
'And you?' I said, turning to his companion.
'He is an artist too,' D'Arcy said, 'but his line is not painting—he is an artist in words.'
'A poet?' I said in amazement.
'A romancer, the greatest one of his time unless it be old Dumas.'