ated on the north side of
Trafalgar Square, that I first made the acquaintance of one DOMENICO
THEOTOCOPULI, a native of Crete, who--probably because his own people
wanted him to be a stockbroker or something--set up as a painter
in Spain, and was dubbed by the Dons "El Greco," as you might say
"Scottie."

For years I have been rather tickled by his manner of depicting Popes
and Saints as if they were reflected in elongating mirrors labelled,
"Before Dining at the Toreador Restaurant." But until quite lately
I hardly ever met anyone who had even noticed him, so I felt quite
bucked on the old chap's account when I heard that he was considered
one of the most distinguished of the Spanish painters, past and
present, who are on view just now at Burlington House.

And what surprises me is not that old THEOTOCOPULI should attract so
much attention in Piccadilly, but that such lots of people seem never
to have known that he has been exhibiting himself all this time in
Trafalgar Square.

I'm sure Mrs. Bletherwood didn't, for one, when she tackled me at the
Chattertons' the other afternoon.

"Of course you've been to Burlington House?" she began, and she was in
such a hurry to get first innings that she didn't give me time to say
that I hadn't yet, but that I meant to go on my first free day that
wasn't foggy.

"Don't you _love_ those quaint 'El Grecos'?" she went on. "He's quite
a discovery, don't you think? My daughter Muriel, who hopes to get
into the Slade School soon now, says she doesn't see how anybody _can_
see people differently from the way 'El Greco' saw people. And yet I
don't know that I _quite_ like the idea of Muriel seeing _me_ like
that, although she's _so_ clever...."

I could not help thinking that in Mrs. Bletherwood's case the "El
Greco" treatment would be an admirable corrective to a certain lateral
expansion.

"Besides," she continued in a confidential tone, "I've heard or read
somewhere that there's just a doubt whether he distorted people on
purpose or because there was something wrong with his eyes. If I
thought it was astigmatism I would insist on taking Muriel to an
oculist. I wonder what you think."

I raised my teacup suggestively.

Mrs. Bletherwood gasped. "You don't mean that he----"

"Like a fish," I said.

"Oh, how too disgraceful!" she exclaimed. "Fancy their having his
pictures there at all. Such religious subjects too. I shall warn
Muriel at once. I'm so thankful you told me..