[Illustration:  Moscheles, or Mephistopheles? which]

No wonder, for my accompaniments were usually rather indefinite quantities, subject to the mood of the moment.  “Moscheles or Mephistopheles, which?” he asks, as he depicts me at the piano, perhaps evolving some such accompaniment from the depths of “untrained inner consciousness.”  “Eureka” he might have put under that other sketch, where his own hands have at last found some long-sought harmony or chord on the piano.  Another drawing there is of a somewhat later period which he calls “Inspiration papillotique.”  Again I am at the piano, my eyes raised to the “She” in papillottes, who floats as a vision in the clouds, issuing from my ever-puffing cigar, whilst at my feet is stretched the meditative form of my friend, and under them is crushed some work of our immortal colleague Beethoven.

[Illustration:  “INSPIRATION PAPILLOTIQUE.”]

[Illustration:  DU MAURIER IMPROVISING.]

And who was “She” thus to inspire us?  On the supposition that most people are, like myself, interested in the “Shes” that can inspire, I may permit myself to say something about the attractive young lady who was able to lead us by easy stages from the vague “inspiration papillotique” to an admiration which might be said to culminate in flirtation.  I don’t remember either of us ever trying to cut the other out, as the accompanying sketch seems to imply, where “Rag and Bobtail fight a duel for Carry, using their noses as double-barrelled pistols.  Shows the way in which Rag tries to desillusioner Carry on Bobtail, and in which Bobtail tries to ditto ditto on Rag Carry being on this side of the rivals is not represented.”

[Illustration:  HOW RAG TRIES TO DESILLUSIONER CARRY ON BOBTAIL, AND BOBTAIL TRIES TO DITTO DITTO ON RAG.]

The truth of the matter is that we shared fraternally in the enjoyment of her good graces, he having the pull of me the greater part of the week, and only suspending operations in my favour when I came to Malines on a Saturday to Monday visit.  These occasions were productive of a great number of drawings and sketches, illustrating our little adventures, and all plainly showing that the incidents recorded occurred to us at that pleasant time of life, when bright illusions and buoyant spirits lead the way, and when sorrow itself has more of the rose colour than many a rose of a later day.

Malines was, and perhaps is still, a dull, deserted city, at best up to the date of last century, beating the record for dry-as-dustiness and growing dear little blades of grass between its cobble stones.  It boasts of a great many churches and of a very great many more priests. (Vide:  The ingenious use which Rag makes of Bobtail’s pliable hat.) In addition to these attractions, there was, however, a factor of paramount interest to us.  Then and there, just as now and elsewhere, there were pretty girls about, and I need not say that, as both of us