this story. He had continued a failure at Winchester and at Christ
Church, Oxford. He had desired to be a painter; he had broken from
the family and gone to study Art in Paris. He had starved and
starved, was at death's door, was dragged home, and there suddenly
had relapsed into Polchester, lived first on his father, then on his
brother-in-law, painted about the town, painted, made cynical
remarks about the Polcastrians, painted, made blasphemous remarks
about the bishop, the dean and all the canons, painted, and refused
to leave his brother-in-law's house. He was a scandal, of course; he
was fat, untidy, wore a blue tam-o'-shanter when he was "out," and
sometimes went down Orange Street in carpet slippers.

He was a scandal, but what are you to do if a relative is obstinate
and refuses to go? At least make him shave, say the wives of the
canons. But no one had ever made Samuel Trefusis do anything that he
did not want to do. He was sometimes not shaved for three whole days
and nights. At any rate, there he is. It is of no use saying that he
does not exist, as many of the Close ladies try to do. And at least
he does not paint strange women; he prefers flowers and cows and the
Polchester woods, although anything less like cows, flowers and
woods, Mrs. Sampson, wife of the Dean, who once had a water-colour
in the Academy, says she has never seen. Samuel Trefusis is a
failure, and, what is truly awful, he does not mind; nobody buys his
pictures and he does not care; and, worst taste of all, he laughs at
his relations, although he lives on them. Nothing further need be
said.

To Helen, Mary and Jeremy he had always been a fascinating object,
although they realised, with that sharp worldly wisdom to be found
in all infants of tender years, that he was a failure, a dirty man,