change came over Rosenheim’s manner.  He grew positively deferential.  It delighted him to meet an artist of talent; they must know each other better.  Cards were exchanged, and Rosenheim read with amazement the grimy inscription ‘Campbell Corot, Landscape Artist.’  ‘Yes, that’s my painting name,’ Campbell Corot said modestly; ’and my pictures are almost equally as good as his’n, but not quite.  They do for ordinary household purposes.  I really hate to see one get into a big sale like the Bolton; it don’t seem honest, but I can’t help it; nobody’d believe me if I told.’  Rosenheim’s demeanour was courtly to a fault as he pleaded an engagement and bade us farewell.  Already apparently he divined a certain importance in so remarkable a gift of mimicry.  I stayed behind, resolved on making the nearer acquaintance of Campbell Corot.”

* * * * *

“Rosenheim clearly understands the art of business,” interrupted the Antiquary.  “And the business of art,” added the Critic.  “Could your seedy friend have painted my Corot?” said the Patron in real distress.  “Why not?” continued the Painter remorselessly.  “Only hear me out, and you may judge for yourself.  Anyhow, let’s drop your Corot; we were speaking of mine.”

“To make Campbell Corot’s acquaintance proved more difficult than I had expected.  He confided to me immediately that he had been a durn fool to give himself away to my friend, but talk was cheap, and people never believed him, anyway.  Then gloom descended, and my professions of confidence received only the most surly responses.  He unbent again for a moment with, ’Painter feller, you knowed the pesky ways of paint, didn’t yer?’ but when I followed up this promising lead and claimed him as an associate, he repulsed me with, ’Stuck up, ain’t yer?  Parley French like your friend?  S’pose you’ve showed in the Saloon at Paris.’  Giving it up, I replied simply:  ’I have; I’m a landscape painter, too, but I’d like to say before I go that I should be glad to be able to paint a picture like that.’  Looking me in the eye and seeing I meant it, ‘Shake!’ he replied cordially.  As we shook, his breath met me fair:  it was such a breath as was not uncommon in old-time Cedar Street.  Gentlemen who affect this aroma are, I have noticed, seldom indifferent to one sort of invitation, so I ventured hardily:  ’You know Nickerson’s Glengyle, sir; perhaps you will do me the favour to drink a glass with me while we chat.’  Here I could tell you a lot about Nickerson’s.”  “Don’t,” begged the Critic, who is abstemious.  “I will only say, then, that Nickerson’s, once an all-night refuge, closes now at three—­desecration has made it the yellow marble office of a teetotaler in the banking line—­and the Glengyle, that blessed essence of the barley, heather, peat, and mist of Old Scotland, has been taken over by an exporting company, limited.  Sometimes I think I detect a little of it in the poisons that the grocers of Glasgow and Edinburgh send over here, or perhaps I only dream of the old taste.  Then it was itself, and by the second glass Campbell Corot was quite ready to soliloquise.  You shall have his story about as he told it, but abridged a little in view of your tender ages and the hour.