If it was not beautiful in detail it was illuminated by an expression that gave a unity of beauty to the whole.  And what was the expression?  I can only describe it by saying that it was the expression of genius; and it had that imperious magnetism which I had never before seen in any face save that of Sinfi Lovell.  But striking as was the face of this man, I soon found that his voice was more striking still.  In whatever assembly that voice was heard, its indescribable resonance would have marked it off from all other voices, and have made the ear of the listener eager to catch the sound.  This voice, however, was not the one that had uttered the name of Wilderspin.  It was from his companion, who sat opposite to him, with his great broad back, covered with a smart velvet coat, towards me, that the talk was now coming.  This man was smoking cigarettes in that kind of furious sucking way which is characteristic of great smokers.  Much smoking, however, had not dried up his skin to the consistence of blotting paper and to the colour of tobacco ash as it does in some cases, but tobacco juice, which seemed to ooze from his face like perspiration, or rather like oil, had made his complexion of a yellow green colour, something like a vegetable marrow.  Although his face was as hairless as a woman’s, there was not a feature in it that was not masculine.  Although his cheek-bones were high and his jaw was of the mould which we so often associate with the prizefighter, he looked as if he might somehow be a gentleman.  And when I got for a moment a full view of his face as he turned round, I thought it showed power and intelligence, although his forehead receded a good deal, a recession which was owing mainly to the bone above the eyes.  Power and intelligence too were seen in every glance of his dark bright eyes.  In a few minutes Wilderspin’s name was again uttered by this man, and I found he was telling anecdotes of the eccentric painter—­telling them with great gusto and humour, in a loud voice, quite careless of being overheard by me.  Then followed other anecdotes of other people—­artists for the most part—­in which the names of Millais, Ruskin, Watts, Leighton, and others came up in quick succession.

That he was a professional anecdote-monger of extraordinary brilliancy, a raconteur of the very first order, was evident enough.  I found also that as a story-teller he was reckless and without conscience.  He was, I thought, inventing anecdotes to amuse his companion, whose manifest enjoyment of them rather weakened the impression that his own personality had been making upon me.

After a while the name of Cyril Aylwin came up, and I soon found the man telling a story of Cyril and a recent escapade of his which I knew must be false.  He then went rattling on about other people, mentioning names which, as I soon gathered, were those of female models known in the art world.  The anecdotes he told of these were mostly to their disadvantage.  I was about to move to another table, in order to get out of earshot of this gossip, when the name ’Lady Sinfi’ fell upon my ears.