s--though it was not boomed into notoriety as were the
performances of some other illustrators of the period as ingenious as
Barnum in the art of advertisement--and there was not an artist who did
not hail May as a master. But Hartrick and Sullivan went further. They
were not only such good artists themselves that they could appreciate
genius in others, they were young enough not to be afraid of their
enthusiasms. They gave the effect of being with May, with whom they
often arrived and stayed until the deplorably early hour of the morning
at which he started for home, in order that they might watch over him,
and, indeed, he needed watching. He was not readier in offering than in
giving anything he was asked for, which was one reason why there was
always a procession of waiters and actors and jockeys out of work at his
front door--why his pockets were always empty. They even discovered the
same genius in May's talk as in his drawing, though the mystery was when
they heard the talk. To this day they will quote Phil May while I wonder
how it is that while for me Henley's talk has not lost its thunder, nor
Bob Stevenson's its brilliant flashes of imbecility, nor Harland's its
whimsical twist, nor Beardsley's its fresh gaiety, nothing of Phil
May's remains save the familiar refrain "Have a cigar!" "Have a
whiskey-and-soda!" "Have a drawing!"

Obsessed by my old-fashioned notion as hostess that people could not
enjoy themselves unless they were kept moving, persisting in my vain
efforts to break up the groups into which the company invariably fell,
again and again I would lure Hartrick and Sullivan away from Phil May.
But it was no use. What they all wanted was to talk not only about their
shop but their own particular counter in it, and no sooner was my back
turned than there they were in the same groups again, Hartrick and
Sullivan watching over Phil May, supported by Raven Hill and Edgar
Wilson, both then deeply involved in youth's game of shocking the
_bourgeois_ by showing on the pages of _Pick-Me-Up_ how the matter of
illustration was ordered in France, and presently starting a magazine of
their own to show it the better, and to do their share as ardent rebels
in the big fight of the Nineties. On my shelves, close by the first
number of _The Yellow Book_ and of the _Savoy_ is the first volume of
_The Butterfly_ and on its fly-leaf is the inscription: "To Elizabeth
Robins Pennell with L. Raven Hill's kind regards," no mor