That evening Frederic took Serge's drawings with him and sought out old Lawrie in the Arts Club, where always on a Sunday evening there was a gathering of old warriors and choice spirits--Joshua Yeo, Elihu Beecroft, the painter, Peter Maitland, who wrote pantomimes, and Warlock Clynes, the photographer, and B. J. Strutt, the manager of the old theatre, where, as a young man, Henry Irving had been a member of the stock company. They were smoking and drinking and yarning. They had vast stores of anecdotes of the great Bohemians in London. Beecroft had twice had pictures in the Academy, and B. J. Strutt had begun life as a call-boy at the Haymarket Theatre. Old James Lawrie had been to London three times and had shaken hands with J. L. Toole and Helen Faucit, and Clement Scott had sent him a copy of his Ballads, of which he had produced many gross parodies. The club was simply three rooms in a dark block of offices--a bar, an eating room, and a smoke-room. Frederic was shown in by the grubby boy whom he found at the door reading a penny "blood," and he stood foolishly in the middle of the room realising dreadfully that old Lawrie did not remember who he was. "Mr. Lawrie. . ." he said. "Eh?" "I--I--My name's Folyat. I--I acted. You asked me to--to look you up here some day." "Eh? Oh, yes. Come and sit down. What'll you have? I can't pay for your drink, but some one will." Frederic sat down, and the little group of old men were embarrassed by his presence. "So. . . so you act, do you? Here's B. J. Strutt. Get him to give you a job in his next pantomime." "I'm--I'm not a pro," said Frederic. "I'm a solicitor." And, as he said it, he felt that it was a small thing to be among these free men who practised the arts. Frederic was a chameleon who took his colour from his surroundings. He had a queer capacity for enthusiasm, which came and went and was altogether beyond his control. He drank a little whiskey and he felt that he was in the company of very wonderful beings. They talked of things and men that were glorious dreams to him, and they spoke of them with such ease and familiarity, like giants playing marbles with the mountains. His own little celebrity, which had been very dear to him, dwindled into nothing, and it was to protect himself that he produced Serge's drawings and began to talk of his brother. Beecroft took the drawings and looked them through. He had a huge red beard and a glistening bald head and round spectacles that made him look like a benevolent spider. He clapped his hands to his bald pink head and with immense fervour said: "By God!" "Are they good?" rasped Lawrie. "No. Damn bad." Frederic felt very small. "I don't know," said B. J. Strutt. "I like that one all yellow in the foreground and blue in the distance. And I like that one with the niggers filing through the orange-trees with the pinky-white house beyond."