And then he showed me more. I discovered that in Paris he had been painting just the same stale, obviously picturesque things that he had painted for years in Rome. It was all false, insincere, shoddy; and yet no one was more honest, sincere, and frank than Dirk Stroeve. Who could resolve the contradiction? I do not know what put it into my head to ask: “I say, have you by any chance run across a painter called Charles Strickland?” “You don’t mean to say you know him?” cried Stroeve. “Beast,” said his wife. Stroeve laughed. _“Ma pauvre chèrie.”_ He went over to her and kissed both her hands. “She doesn’t like him. How strange that you should know Strickland!” “I don’t like bad manners,” said Mrs. Stroeve. Dirk, laughing still, turned to me to explain. “You see, I asked him to come here one day and look at my pictures. Well, he came, and I showed him everything I had.” Stroeve hesitated a moment with embarrassment. I do not know why he had begun the story against himself; he felt an awkwardness at finishing it. “He looked at—at my pictures, and he didn’t say anything. I thought he was reserving his judgment till the end. And at last I said: ‘There, that’s the lot!’ He said: ‘I came to ask you to lend me twenty francs.’” “And Dirk actually gave it him,” said his wife indignantly. “I was so taken aback. I didn’t like to refuse. He put the money in his pocket, just nodded, said ‘Thanks,’ and walked out.” Dirk Stroeve, telling the story, had such a look of blank astonishment on his round, foolish face that it was almost impossible not to laugh. “I shouldn’t have minded if he’d said my pictures were bad, but he said nothing—nothing.” “And you _will_ tell the story, Dirk,” Said his wife. It was lamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculous figure cut by the Dutchman than outraged by Strickland’s brutal treatment of him. “I hope I shall never see him again,” said Mrs. Stroeve. Stroeve smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He had already recovered his good-humour. “The fact remains that he’s a great artist, a very great artist.” “Strickland?” I exclaimed. “It can’t be the same man.” “A big fellow with a red beard. Charles Strickland. An Englishman.” “He had no beard when I knew him, but if he has grown one it might well be red. The man I’m thinking of only began painting five years ago.” “That’s it. He’s a great artist.” “Impossible.” “Have I ever been mistaken?” Dirk asked me. “I tell you he has genius. I’m convinced of it. In a hundred years, if you and I are remembered at all, it will be because we knew Charles Strickland.” I was astonished, and at the same time I was very much excited. I remembered suddenly my last talk with him. “Where can one see his work?” I asked. “Is he having any success? Where is he living?”