And Eric, _alias_ Bindo, how shall I describe him? A fair boy, delicate looking, but with lungs that can fill the biggest concert room in London, with wavy golden hair flung back on his forehead, and the long dreamy eyes so dear to the soul of Raphael. In fact, it was Raphael’s picture of Bindo Altoviti (long supposed to be a portrait of the painter) that had won him his name. Framed in the cabin window of a Bournemouth steamer (excursion boats in these days do not condescend to port holes), his arms resting on the sill, the resemblance had struck me irresistibly. From that day he became “Bindo” to all of us, and would scarcely have recognised an appeal to him as “Eric,” if we had lighted on the name by accident. His hair perhaps was one of his most telling points. It reflected under strong lights brilliant flakes of gold, isolated like the motes that are suspended in certain liqueurs. But after all it was his manner that took so much with all his friends. He had the timid deprecating caress of a half-tamed animal, like Hawthorne’s Donatello before he had won himself a soul. Alas! poor Bindo was hardly allowed time to win it. “And what was the show like to-night, Bindo?” asked Eastonville. “Oh, the same old game. Nothing would suit them out of sixty songs but ‘Jerusalem,’ ‘Rags and Tatters,’ and ‘Home, sweet Home.’ They don’t mind ‘A boy’s best friend’ for an encore when they are in a strictly domestic mood. But anything really worth singing they won’t look at.” “Well, we’ll follow their better mood and have ‘Jerusalem.’ You’ve got back your voice by now, old chap, and we’ve been waiting for you patiently this last half-hour or more.” Once again that night the glorious voice rang out into the thin air, startling the silent square. Windows were hastily flung up, and the word “Bindo” was passed from sill to sill. Even a drowsy canary was stimulated to try a note or two in emulation of a method more attractive than its own. And through the open window came, for an accompaniment, the voice of London, soft as the murmur of a far-off sea. With the end of the song a sharp rattle of applause ran round the square, marked by distinctive intervals, like the volley at a soldier’s funeral.