Still Rhodes did great things, and was it not he who said, “It is a good thing to have a period of adversity”? Mighty true—but strangely disagreeable. Although outwardly so indifferent to everyone and everything, Cecil Rhodes was not above the vanities. He and a friend of mine had been boys together, and Rhodes became godfather to one of the latter’s children, a post which he considered held serious responsibilities. He wished to make his godson a valuable present. It was the proud parent’s idea to ask the great African to let the gift be his portrait. “Of course I will,” said Cecil Rhodes; “arrange the artist and terms, and tell me when I am to sit, and I’ll go.” So matters were settled. An artist was asked to undertake the commission, and one fine day my friend took Rhodes round to the studio for the first sitting. The artist decided to paint him side face. Rhodes petulantly refused to be depicted anything but full face. Discussion waxed warm, and, naturally, my poor friend felt very uncomfortable. However, the artist, claiming the doctor’s privilege of giving orders and expecting to be obeyed, began his work on his own lines. Cecil Rhodes gave only the first sitting and one other. Then, finding the picture was really being painted side face, like a child he became furious. He refused ever to sit again, and on his return from the studio wrote a cheque for the stipulated sum, and sent it to the artist, asking him to forward the picture to him as it was. The brush-man guessed that his object was to destroy the canvas, so, instead of sending the picture, he returned the cheque. Thus the portrait—unfinished, indeed, hardly begun—remained hidden away in the studio; and now that the sitter is dead, it should possess some interest. A man who knew Cecil Rhodes very well once told me: “He was a muddler. I was one of his secretaries. When he went away we sorted his correspondence, ‘One,’ ‘Two,’ ‘Three.’ ‘One’ included the letters requiring first attention. ‘Two’ those not so important, and so on. When he came back from Bulawayo, we gave him the letters. Three months afterwards, he had never looked at one of them. ‘Leave them alone, they will answer themselves,’ he said; but that was a most dangerous doctrine, and sometimes nearly cost C. R. his position. He made endless enemies through this extraordinary, selfish, lazy indifference.” As stated above, Stanley was at this dinner of which I have been writing, and I often met him later. He always appeared to me shy, reticent, almost to moroseness on occasions. He was a small man with white wavy hair, round face, and square jaw, dark of skin—probably more dark in effect than reality, in contrast to the hair. He was broadly made and inclined to be stout. His face was much lined, but a merry smile spread over his countenance at times.