Then came Kaye, one of the least conspicuous of the whole group, though he has since become perhaps the best known, by his poems and his beautiful critical studies in both art and literature.  Kaye is known as one of those rare figures in literature, a creative critic.  His rich and elaborate style, his exquisite sidelights, his poetical faculty of interpretation, make his work famous, though hardly popular.  But I found that he worked very slowly and even painfully, deliberately secreting his honey, and depositing it cell by cell.  He had a peculiar intimacy with Father Payne, who treated him with a marked respect.  Kaye was by far the most absorbed of the party, went and came like a great moth, was the first to disappear, and generally the last to arrive.  Neither did he make any attempt at friendship.  He was a handsome and graceful fellow, now about thirty, with a worn sort of beauty in his striking features, curling hair, long languid frame, and fine hands.  His hands, I used to think, were the most eloquent things about him, and he was ever making silent little gestures with them, as though they were accompanying unuttered trains of thought; but he had, too, a strained and impatient air, as if he found the pursuit of phrases a wearing and hazardous occupation.  I used to feel Kaye the most attractive and impressive of our society; but he neither made nor noticed any signals of goodwill, though always courteous and kindly.

Pollard was a totally different man:  he was about twenty-eight, and he was writing some work of fiction.  He was a small, sturdy, rubicund creature, with beady eyes and pink cheeks, cherubic in aspect, entirely good-natured and lively, full of not very exalted humour, and with a tendency to wild and even hysterical giggling.  I used to think that Father Payne did not like him very much; but he was a quick and regular worker, and it was impossible to find fault with him.  He was extremely sociable and appreciative, and I used to find his company a relief from the strain which at times made itself felt.  Pollard had a way of getting involved in absurd adventures, which he related with immense gusto; and he had a really wonderful power of description—­more so in conversation than in writing—­and of humorous exaggeration, which made him a delightful companion.  But he was never able to put the best of himself into his books, which tended to be sentimental and even conventional.

Then there was Lestrange; and I think he was the least congenial of the lot.  He was a handsome, rather clerical-looking man of about twenty-eight, who had been brought up to take orders, and had decided against doing so.  He was very much in earnest, in rather a tiresome way, and his phrases were conventional and pietistic.  I used to feel that he jarred a good deal on Father Payne, but much was forgiven him because of his musical talents, which were really remarkable.  His organ-playing, with its verve, its delicacy, and its quiet mastery, was delicious