What about him?"
"He was a curate in the East End," continued Dick, and for ten
years he laboured, poor and unknown, leading one of those noble,
heroic lives that here and there men do yet live, even in this age.
Now he is the prophet of the fashionable up-to-date Christianity of
South Kensington, drives to his pulpit behind a pair of thorough-
bred Arabs, and his waistcoat is taking to itself the curved line
of prosperity. He was in here the other morning on behalf of
Princess --. They are giving a performance of one of my plays in
aid of the Destitute Vicars' Fund."
"And did Pyramids discourage him?" I asked, with perhaps the
suggestion of a sneer.
"No," answered Dick, "so far as I could judge, it approved the
scheme. The point of the matter is that the moment Whycherly came
into the room the cat walked over to him and rubbed itself
affectionately against his legs. He stood and stroked it."
"'Oh, so it's come to you, has it?' he said, with a curious smile.
"There was no need for any further explanation between us. I
understood what lay behind those few words."
I lost sight of Dick for some time, though I heard a good deal of
him, for he was rapidly climbing into the position of the most
successful dramatist of the day, and Pyramids I had forgotten all
about, until one afternoon calling on an artist friend who had
lately emerged from the shadows of starving struggle into the
sunshine of popularity, I saw a pair of green eyes that seemed
familiar to me gleaming at me from a dark corner of the studio.
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