“_Quel qu’il soit?_” he asked of a scented exquisite who stood near him. “What!” exclaimed the gallant, turning in a fainting affectation on his interlocutor. “Not know him? Not know our divine Orpheus, the rare, the inspired, the man to whose finger-tips the bees come a-sipping for honey, the man the tweak of whose thumb will ravish a heart from its bosom as clean as a periwinkle from its shell!” “I asked for a name,” said Hamilton caustically, “and you have given me a catalogue, of which the least desired part was the note of exclamation at the end.” “Well, ’tis Jack Bannister,” said the stranger, much misliking the other’s tone, but recognizing a potential something in it which kept him civil. But, having furnished the information, he first edged and then swaggered away. Hamilton had heard speak of the prodigy, but had never yet chanced to alight on him. He lingered now, to endorse or not the extravagant eulogies lavished on this eighth wonder of his age. And, having listened, he admitted to himself that the verdict was justified. There was something in this man’s performance which surpassed anything he had hitherto experienced. It illustrated in the extremest degree what is called genius, but which is really soul--that spiritual utterance, born with a few men like an unknown language, which would be transcendental were it not for the medium--paint, or ink, or chord, or marble--through which it must materialize in order to reach the senses. “Ah!” he thought: “if he could only say all that without the harp; if Shakespeare could only have conveyed his mind to us without pen or paper, what a divine and cleansing understanding would be ours! But the senses are cloudy interpreters.” He was moved, but he would not applaud. “As well cry ‘Brava!’” he thought, “to the divine Speaker of the Sermon on the Mount. I will not so degrade him to exalt myself.” But there were others who lacked his understanding, and the clapping of hands was general. It offended this paradoxical being, and he strode away, the perfection of his impression sullied. As he dived into a dusk, unfrequented walk, a new strain of music pursued him; but he would not stop to listen to it. That applause had spelt the surfeit which had spoilt the feast. Presently a little stealing figure in front of him barred his way. There was but an occasional lamp here, and the path was dim. But he could make out that it was a woman, and young, and alone. It was easy to overtake her, and a matter of course to stop and accost, because she was masked and unaccompanied, which was in itself a challenge. As he stood, a sudden thought seizing him, he looked down at her bosom; but no green emblem was there to inform him, only a rather tell-tale tawdriness of ornament and material; and he laughed, and put his hand on the truant’s arm. “He is under the gooseberry-bushes beyond,” he said. “Shall we go stoop and seek him there?”