filled with them represent one of the most
animated phases of the Nineties. And we looked upon the "men of the
Sixties" as masters, among them giving to Sandys a leading place.

If he was not any longer doing the work for which we took off our hat to
him, he certainly looked the leader--tall, handsome, dignified, just
enough of a stoop in his shoulders to become his age, his dress
irreproachable, the white waistcoat immaculate, pale yellow hair parted
in the middle and beautifully brushed, beard not patriarchal exactly but
eminently correct and well cared for, manners princely. It was clear
that he liked the role of master and his voice was in keeping with the
part. But he was a master who presided at his best over a small
audience, and, no doubt knowing it, he avoided our Thursdays.

He was also a master given to small gossip. We heard from him less of
art, its aims and ideals, its mediums and methods, than of the sayings
and doings of the Pre-Raphaelites who were his friends and
contemporaries. The name of "Gabriel" was ever in his mouth. It was
Rossetti whom he most loved--or love is not the word, less of affection
revealed in his memories than a sense of injury, as if it had somehow
been the fault of "Gabriel" and the others that he had not come off as
well as they, though of all "Gabriel" had been most active in seeing
him through the tight places he so successfully got himself into. This,
no doubt, was the reason Rossetti felt entitled to a little laugh now
and then over Sandys's difficulties. Sandys was a man who needed to be
seen through tight places until the end, as we had occasion to know by
the urgent note he sent us on a Saturday night, more than once, from the
_Cafe Royal_, his favourite haunt in his later years, where a variety of
unavoidable accidents, with a curious faculty for repeating themselves,
would keep him prisoner until his friends came to his relief.

He was full of anecdote, which was quite in the order of things, the
Sixties having supplied anecdote for a whole library of books and
magazines. Could I tell Sandys's stories with Sandys's voice I should be
tempted to repeat them yet once again, though many were told us also by
Whistler, and these J. and I have recorded in the Life. Whistler told
them better, with more truth because with more gaiety and joy in their
absurdity. And yet, the solemnity of Sandys added a personal flavour,
gave them a character nobody else could give. I have not fo