Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

more persons ; it was during the severe physical strain which her confinement imposed upon him that he wrote the “ Nameless Novel.” All this time of his marriage, about two years, he had been also performing miracles of pi- ety. Ordained three years before, he rapidly gained the favour of his superiors by his modesty and elo- quence. He obtained a valuable private chaplaincy in Paris, a most suitable post, allowing him plenty of leisure for other work. During this period a deli- cious volume of hymns came from his pen, and his self-sacrificing ministrations to the poor were the wonder of the French capital. His evenings were spent in that witty and high- thinking informal club which met nightly at the restaurant Au Chien Rouge, whose members are so honoured in the world of Art. There he met C . . . the brilliant but debauched sculptor, caustic of wit, though genial to his friends ; N . . . , the great painter, who’s royal sense of light made his can- vases into a harmonious dream ; he also the sweet friend of Bacchus, who filled him with a glow and melody of colour and thought. There, too, were D . . . and L . . . , the one poet and philosopher, the other painter and — I fear — pederast. Twins in thought, the two were invincible in argument as they were supreme in their respective arts. Often I have sat, a privileged listener, while D . . . ’s cold acumen and L . . . ’s superb indignation, expressed in fiery swords of speech, would drive some luck- less driveller from the room. Or at times they would hold down their victim, a bird fascinated by a snake, while they pitilessly exposed his follies to the delighted crowd. Again, a third, pompous and self-confident, would be led on by them, seemingly in full sympathy, to make an exhibition of himself, visible and hideous to all eyes but his own. L . . . , his eager face like a silver moon starting from a thundercloud, his hair, would pierce the very soul [7]