imputed a mean or dishonorable thing to M—–­y; but for the rest, there was nothing he did not do or permit to be done.  He painted when he liked and what he liked.  His compositions, whether of landscape or history, were eagerly snatched up at extravagant prices,—­for M—–­y was always exorbitant in his demands.  Besides, when he chose, M—–­y painted portraits,—­never on application, nor for the aristocracy or the rich,—­but as the mood seized him, of some subject that attracted him while on his various excursions, or of some of his friends.  Yet who were his friends?  Could any one tell?  I could not find a person who claimed to know him intimately.  Everybody had something to praise him for:  “But it was such a pity that”—­and here would follow one of the thousand bits of gossip which were floating about and had been floating for years, I had seen M—–­y often,—­for he was no recluse, and could be met daily in the streets.  His general appearance so fascinated me that the desire to know the man led me to adopt the course I have just mentioned.  So much by way of explanation.

And now, furnished with the card and the advice contained in my friend R.’s letter, I proceeded one afternoon to the ——­ Strasse, and sought admittance.  A decent-looking servant-woman opened the door, and to my inquiry replied that Herr M—–­y was certainly at home, but whether engaged or not she could not answer.  She ushered me into a small apartment on my right, which seemed intended for a reception-room.  I was about sending some kind of message to the master of the house, for I did not like to trust the magic card out of my possession, when I heard a door open and shut at the end of the hall, and the quick, nervous step of a along the passage.  Seeing the servant standing by the door, M—–­y, for it was he, walked toward it and presented himself bodily before me.  He wore a cap and dressing-gown, and looked vexed, but not ill-natured, on seeing me.  I was much embarrassed, and, forgetting what I had proposed to say to him, I put R.’s card into his hand without a word.  His eye lighted up instantly.

“You are from America?—­You are welcome!—­How is my friend?” were words rapidly enunciated.  “Come with me,—­leave your hat there,—­so!”—­and we mounted a flight of stairs, passed what I perceived to be a fine salon, then through a charming, domestic-looking apartment into one still smaller, around the walls of which hung three portraits.  Portraits did I say?  I can employ no other name,—­but so life-like and so human, my first impression was that I was entering a room where were three living people.

“Never you mind these,” exclaimed M—–­y, pleasantly, “but sit down there,” pointing to a large fauteuil, “and tell me when you reached Munich, and if you will stay some time:  then I can judge better how to do for you.”

My face flushed, for I felt guilty at the little fraud I seemed to have practised on him.  I hesitated only an instant, and then frankly told him the truth:  how it was eighteen months since I left America; how I had been three months in Munich already; how, hearing so much about him and observing him frequently in the streets, I became anxious for his acquaintance, and had written to R. accordingly.