He said it as one might say, ’I am Mr. Gladstone’—­or Lord Salisbury—­or Bismarck—­with dignity, with an inflection of conscious greatness, it is true, but with neither haughtiness nor ostentation.  We, however, are singularly ignorant of contemporary English literature in the Latin Quarter—­our chief reading matter, indeed, being Maupassant and Le Petit Journal pour Rire—­and though, as we shortly learned, here was a writer whose works were for sale at every bookstall in the United Kingdom, lavishly pirated in the United States, and distributed far and wide by Baron Tauchnitz on the Continent, his announcement left us unenlightened.

‘Painter?’ demanded Chalks.

A shadow crossed his face.  ‘You are surely familiar with my name?’

‘Never heard it that I know of,’ answered Chalks; then, raising his voice, ’Any gentleman present ever heard of—­what did you say your name was?’ he asked in an aside; and being informed, went on, ’of Mr. Davis Blake?’

No one spoke.

‘Mud?’ queried Chalks.

‘Mud?’ repeated Mr. Blake, perplexed.

‘He means to enquire whether you are a sculptor,’ ventured I.

‘A sculptor—­certainly not.’  He spoke sharply, throwing back his head.  ’It is impossible that no one here should have heard of me; and this pretence of ignorance is meant as a practical joke.  I am a novelist—­one of the best known novelists living.  I am Davis Blake, the author of “Crispin Dorr,” and “The Card Dealer.”  My portrait, with a short biographical sketch, appeared in the Illustrated Gazette not a month ago.  My works have been translated into French, German, Russian, and Italian.  Of “The Card Dealer,” upwards of thirty thousand copies have been sold in Great Britain alone.’

‘Ah, then you could well afford to stand us drinks,’ was Chalks’s cheerful commentary.  ’We ain’t much on book-learning, this side the river, Mr. Blake.  We’re plain blunt men, that ain’t ashamed of manual labour—­horny-handed sons of toil, in short.  But we’re proud to meet a cultivated gentleman like yourself, all the same, and can appreciate him when met.’

Blake laughed rather lamely, and responded, ’I perceive that you are a humorist.  Your countrymen are great admirers of my writings; of “Crispin Dorr,” I am told, there are no fewer than three rival editions in the market; and I have received complimentary letters and requests for my autograph, from all parts of the United States, I think that the quality of American humour has been over-rated:  but I can forgive a jest at my own expense, provided it be not meant in malice.’

‘Every novice in our order, sir,’ said Chalks, ’must approve his mettle by undergoing something in the nature of an initiatory ordeal.  We may now drop foolery, and converse like intelligent human beings.  You were asking our opinion of Willy’s daub——­’

‘Willy?’ questioned Blake.