yself in the classical folds of the
bed-sheet, and go for the Tyrant, hissing fearful hexameters of scorn
and vituperation into his ears, and usually winding up with a pose so
magnificently triumphant that it would bring down any house which was
not of the most solid construction.

Another time the cushion yonder would be my child--the orthodox
long-lost one--"It is!--It is not!--It is!--Let me clasp it to my
other cushion!" "Toi mon fils cheri. Ange de mon enfer, douleur de mes
loisirs!"

[Illustration: FELIX LOOKS VERY SEEDY AFTER HIS BIRTHDAY.]

The celebration of one of my birthdays was an event rescued from
oblivion by du Maurier's pencil. He illustrates our lively doings
on that day and my appearance the next morning. "Felix's mamma," he
says, "had worked a very pretty cap for Felix, and Felix had it on the
morning after his birthday, and Felix found that though the cap was
very pretty, it made him look very seedy."

[Illustration: "RACHEL" AND FRIENDS CELEBRATE BOBTAIL'S BIRTHDAY.]

In the other drawing he gives striking likenesses of the friends
assembled to celebrate the festive occasion. They had come together
in the evening, much in the same spirit that had led them under my
windows in the morning, with a brass band and an enormous bouquet of
cabbages, carrots, and cauliflowers. There, on the left, is Van Lerius
with his hands in his pockets, next to him du Maurier; then Heyermans,
Bource, and all the other chums, and, though last not least, the proud
bearer of the steaming punch-bowl. What a set of jolly good fellows!
It is quite a pleasure to pore over the sketch and contemplate du
Maurier's phiz, expressing his unbounded capacity of enjoyment. I can
see him taking points that fell flat with the other fellows. Quite
a pleasure, too, to think of Huysmans' big nose and Van Lerius' bald
head, of the tall and the short, of spindle shanks and chubby face.

Where are they all now? Some thirty-five years have elapsed, and
the whirligig of time has been revolving with unfailing regularity,
dropping us here and there, as caprice dictated, some to stand, some
to fall. What has become of the threads of friendship, picked up at
the studio or the cafe, perhaps whilst puzzling over the chess-board,
or when harmonising in four-part song? Golden threads; some destined
to be spun out and to become solidly intertwined; others to be
hopelessly entangled or cruelly snapped asunder by the inexorable
Fates. Where shall I