Finally there came to him the paramount distinction, the last proof that he was appreciated.  The press actually fell into the habit of mentioning his name without explanatory comment.  Exactly as it does not write “Mr. A.J.  Balfour, the eminent statesman,” or “Sarah Bernhardt, the renowned actress,” or “Charles Peace, the historic murderer,” but simply “Mr. A.J.  Balfour,” “Sarah Bernhardt” or “Charles Peace”; so it wrote simply “Mr. Priam Farll.”  And no occupant of a smoker in a morning train ever took his pipe out of his mouth to ask, “What is the johnny?” Greater honour in England hath no man.  Priam Farll was the first English painter to enjoy this supreme social reward.

And now he was inhabiting the puce dressing-gown.

The Dreadful Secret

A bell startled the forlorn house; its loud old-fashioned jangle came echoingly up the basement stairs and struck the ear of Priam Farll, who half rose and then sat down again.  He knew that it was an urgent summons to the front door, and that none but he could answer it; and yet he hesitated.

Leaving Priam Farll, the great and wealthy artist, we return to that far more interesting person, Priam Farll the private human creature; and come at once to the dreadful secret of his character, the trait in him which explained the peculiar circumstances of his life.

As a private human creature, he happened to be shy.

He was quite different from you or me.  We never feel secret qualms at the prospect of meeting strangers, or of taking quarters at a grand hotel, or of entering a large house for the first time, or of walking across a room full of seated people, or of dismissing a servant, or of arguing with a haughty female aristocrat behind a post-office counter, or of passing a shop where we owe money.  As for blushing or hanging back, or even looking awkward, when faced with any such simple, everyday acts, the idea of conduct so childish would not occur to us.  We behave naturally under all circumstances—­for why should a sane man behave otherwise?  Priam Farll was different.  To call the world’s attention visually to the fact of his own existence was anguish to him.  But in a letter he could be absolutely brazen.  Give him a pen and he was fearless.

Now he knew that he would have to go and open the front door.  Both humanity and self-interest urged him to go instantly.  For the visitant was assuredly the doctor, come at last to see the sick man lying upstairs.  The sick man was Henry Leek, and Henry Leek was Priam Farll’s bad habit.  While somewhat of a rascal (as his master guessed), Leek was a very perfect valet.  Like you and me, he was never shy.  He always did the natural thing naturally.  He had become, little by little, indispensable to Priam Farll, the sole means of living communication between Priam Farll and the universe of men.  The master’s shyness, resembling a deer’s, kept the pair almost entirely out of England, and,