Some of us in the Latin Quarter found the man’s egotism insupportable, and gave him a wide berth.  Others, more numerous, among them the irrepressible Chalks, made it an object of derision, and would exhaust their ingenuity in efforts to lead him on, and entice him into more and more egregious exhibitions of it; while, if they did not laugh in his face, they took, at least, no slightest pains to conceal their jubilant interchange of winks and nudges.

‘If he were only an ass,’ Chalks urged, ’one might feel disposed to spare him.  A merciful man is merciful to a beast.  But he’s such a cad, to boot—­bandying his wife’s name about the Latin Quarter, telling Tom, Dick, and Harry of their conjugal differences, and boasting of his successes with other women!’

A few of us, however, could not prevent an element of pity from tincturing our amusement.  If his self-conceit was comical, by reason of its candour, it was surely pitiable, because of the poor, dwarfed starveling of a soul that it revealed.  Here was a man, with life in his veins, and round about him the whole mystery and richness of creation—­and he could seriously think of nothing save how, by his dress, by his speech, his postures, to render himself the observed of all observers!

Wherever he went, in whatever company he found himself, that was the sole thing he cared for—­to be the centre of attention, to be looked at, listened to, recognised and admired as a celebrity.  And if the event happened otherwise, if he had ground for the suspicion that the people near him were suffering their minds to wander to another topic, his face would darken, his attitude become distinctly one of rancour.  With Chalks, familiarity bred boldness; he made the latter days of Blake’s sojourn amongst us exceedingly unhappy.

‘Now, Mr. Blake,’ he would say, ’we are going to talk of art and love and things in general for a while, to rest our brains from the author of “Crispin Dorr.”  Please step into the corner there and sulk.’

And he had a bit of slang, which he set to a bar of music, and would sing, as if in absence of mind, whenever the conversation lapsed, to the infinite annoyance of Mr. Blake:—­

‘Git your hair cut—­git your hair cut—­git your hair cut—­short!’

‘If that is meant for me,’ Blake once protested, ’I take it as discourteous in the last degree.’

’My dear sir, you were twenty thousand leagues from my thoughts.  And as for getting your hair cut, I beseech you, don’t.  You would shear away the fabric of our joy,’ Chalks answered.

Blake had a curiously exaggerated notion of his fame; and his jealousy thereof surpassed the jealousy of women.  He took it for granted that everybody had heard of him, and bridled, as at a personal affront, when he met any one who hadn’t.  If you fell into chance talk with him, in ignorance of his identity, he could not let three minutes pass without informing you.  And then, if you appeared not adequately impressed, he would wax ill-tempered.  He was genuinely convinced that his person and his actions were affairs of consuming interest to all the world.  To be something, to do something, perhaps he honestly aspired; but to seem something was certainly his ruling passion.