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And Even Now by Sir Max Beerbohm
page 40 of 194 (20%)
I never ventured to inquire, and indeed rather cherished the mystery:
it was a part of the dear little old man; it went with the something
gnome-like about his swarthiness and chubbiness--went with the shaggy
hair that fell over the collar of his eternally crumpled frock-coat,
the shaggy eyebrows that overhung his bright little brown eyes, the
shaggy moustache that hid his small round chin. It was a mystery
inherent in the richly-laden atmosphere of The Pines....

While I stood talking to Watts-Dunton--talking as loudly as he, for he
was very deaf--I enjoyed the thrill of suspense in watching the door
through which would appear--Swinburne. I asked after Mr. Swinburne's
health. Watts-Dunton said it was very good: `He always goes out for
his long walk in the morning--wonderfully active. Active in mind, too.
But I'm afraid you won't be able to get into touch with him. He's
almost stone-deaf, poor fellow--almost stone-deaf now.' He changed the
subject, and I felt I must be careful not to seem interested in
Swinburne exclusively. I spoke of `Aylwin.' The parlourmaid brought in
the hot dishes. The great moment was at hand.

Nor was I disappointed. Swinburne's entry was for me a great moment.
Here, suddenly visible in the flesh, was the legendary being and
divine singer. Here he was, shutting the door behind him as might
anybody else, and advancing--a strange small figure in grey, having an
air at once noble and roguish, proud and skittish. My name was roared
to him. In shaking his hand, I bowed low, of course--a bow de coeur;
and he, in the old aristocratic manner, bowed equally low, but with
such swiftness that we narrowly escaped concussion. You do not usually
associate a man of genius, when you see one, with any social class;
and, Swinburne being of an aspect so unrelated as it was to any
species of human kind, I wondered the more that almost the first
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