At the end of term he settled in, or, rather, meteoritically into,
London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that
forever-enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first
acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other August elders who dwelt
there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street,
Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the
few--Aubrey Beardsley by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit
to the Bodley Head. By him I was inducted into another haunt of
intellect and daring, the domino-room of the Cafe Royal.

There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of
gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and
upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted and
pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation
broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled
on marble tables, I drew a deep breath and, "This indeed," said I to
myself, "is life!" (Forgive me that theory. Remember the waging of even
the South African War was not yet.)

It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermuth. Those who
knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by
name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and
wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables
occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was
sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our
table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a
disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a
stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and
brownish hair. He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on
which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its