They took him to Wagner festivals and Burne-Jones's private views.
They read him all the minor poets. They booked seats for him at
all Ibsen's plays. They introduced him into all the most soulful
circles of artistic society. His days were one long feast of other
people's enjoyments.
One morning I met him coming down the steps of the Arts Club. He
looked weary. He was just off to a private view at the New
Gallery. In the afternoon he had to attend an amateur performance
of "The Cenci," given by the Shelley Society. Then followed three
literary and artistic At Homes, a dinner with an Indian nabob who
couldn't speak a word of English, "Tristam and Isolde" at Covent
Garden Theatre, and a ball at Lord Salisbury's to wind up the day.
I laid my hand upon his shoulder.
"Come with me to Epping Forest," I said. "There's a four-horse
brake starts from Charing Cross at eleven. It's Saturday, and
there's bound to be a crowd down there. I'll play you a game of
skittles, and we will have a shy at the cocoa-nuts. You used to be
rather smart at cocoa-nuts. We can have lunch there and be back at
seven, dine at the Troc.
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