'In other words,' said he, 'you mean...?' and he came nearer.
'In other words, I mean that, judging from the way in which you are
advancing towards me now, the result of such an encounter might not
tend to the honour and glory of the British artist in Wales.'
'But,' said he, 'you are no Gypsy. Who are you?'
'My name is Henry Aylwin,' said I; 'and I must ask you to withdraw
your words about the virtues of soap, as my sister objects to them.'
'What?' cried he, losing for the first time his matchless
_sang-froid_. 'Henry Aylwin?' Then he looked at me in silent
amazement, while an expression of the deepest humorous enjoyment
overspread his features, making them positively shine as though
oiled. Finally, he burst into a loud laugh, that was all the more
irritating from the manifest effort he made to restrain it.
'Did I hear His Majesty of Gypsydom aright?' he said, as soon as his
hilarity allowed him to speak. 'Is the humble bed of a mere painter
to be made for him by the representative of the proud Aylwins, the
genteel Aylwins, the heir-presumptive Aylwins--the most respectable
branch of a most respectable family, which, alas! has its ungenteel,
its bohemian, its vulgar offshoots? Did I hear His Majesty of
Gypsydom aright?'
He leant against a tree, and gave utterance to peal after peal of
laughter.
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