He said it as one might say, 'I am Mr. Gladstone'--or Lord
Salisbury--or Bismarck--with dignity, with an inflection of conscious
greatness, it is true, but with neither haughtiness nor ostentation.
We, however, are singularly ignorant of contemporary English
literature in the Latin Quarter--our chief reading matter, indeed,
being Maupassant and _Le Petit Journal pour Rire_--and though, as we
shortly learned, here was a writer whose works were for sale at every
bookstall in the United Kingdom, lavishly pirated in the United
States, and distributed far and wide by Baron Tauchnitz on the
Continent, his announcement left us unenlightened.

'Painter?' demanded Chalks.

A shadow crossed his face. 'You are surely familiar with my name?'

'Never heard it that I know of,' answered Chalks; then, raising his
voice, 'Any gentleman present ever heard of--what did you say your
name was?' he asked in an aside; and being informed, went on, 'of Mr.
Davis Blake?'

No one spoke.

'Mud?' queried Chalks.

'Mud?' repeated Mr. Blake, perplexed.

'He means to enquire whether you are a sculptor,' ventured I.

'A sculptor--certainly not.' He spoke sharply, throwing back his head.
'It is impossible that no one here should have heard of me; and this