'My dear friend can laugh aloud. Most wonderful! What can have
happened?'
This is what had happened. By one of those strange coincidences which
make the drama of real life far more wonderful than the drama of any
stage, I, in my character of wandering Gypsy, had been thrown across
the path of the _bete noire_ of my mother and aunt, Cyril Aylwin, a
painter of bohemian proclivities, who (under the name of 'Cyril') had
obtained some considerable reputation. This kinsman of mine had been
held up to me as a warning from my very childhood, though wherein lay
his delinquencies I never did clearly understand, save that he had
once been an actor--before acting had become genteel. Often as I had
heard of this eccentric painter as the representative of the branch
of the family which preceded mine in the succession to the coveted
earldom, I had never seen him before.
He stood and looked at me in a state of intense amusement, but did
not speak.
'So you are Cyril Aylwin?' I said. 'Still you must withdraw what you
said to my sister about the soap.
Pages:
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359