about the comrades in Paris, and sorting the threads that associated
us both with the same place. "Did you know 'un nommé Pointer'?" he
asked, exquisitely Frenchy-fying the name for my benefit. I mentally
translated this into equally exquisite English, my version naturally
being: "A man called Poynter."

Later on an American came up, with whom I exchanged a few words in
his and my native tongue. "What the D. are you--English?" broke in du
Maurier. "And what the D. are you?" I rejoined. I forget whether D.
stood for Dickens or for the other one; probably it was the latter. At
any rate, whether more or less emphatic in our utterances, we then and
there made friends on a sound international basis.

It seemed to me that at this our first meeting du Maurier took me in
at a glance--the eager, hungry glance of the caricaturist. He seemed
struck with my appearance, as well he might be. I wore a workman's
blouse that had gradually taken its colour from its surroundings. To
protect myself from the indiscretions of my comrades I had painted
various warnings on my back, as, for instance, "Bill stickers beware,"
"It is forbidden to shoot rubbish here," and the like. My very black
hair, ever inclined to run riot, was encircled by a craftily conceived
band of crochet-work, such as only a fond mother's hand could devise,
and I was doubtless colouring some meerschaum of eccentric design.
My fellow-student, the now famous Matthew Maris, immortalised that
blouse and that piece of crochet-work in the admirable oil-sketch here
reproduced.

[Illustration: MY BLOUSE.

(_From an oil-sketch by Matthew Maris._)]