He would as soon dine at Pagani's with a poor sculptor, or a poor
and plain woman who was struggling to give lessons in Italian, as with
the most brilliant hostess in London. And he always found fashion and
ceremony a bore. He was so great a favourite in England that he had been
given that most English of titles, a knighthood, just as though he were
very rich, or political, or a popular actor. In a childish way it amused
him, and he was pleased with it. But though he was remarkable for his
courtly tact, he loved most of all to be absolutely free and Bohemian,
to be quite natural among really sympathetic, witty, or beautiful
friends. He liked to say what he thought, to go where he wished, and to
make love when he chose, not when other people chose. He had long been a
man with an assured position, but he had changed little since he was
twenty-one, and arrived from Naples with only his talent, his bright
blue eyes, his fair complexion, his small, dignified figure and his
daring humour. Yet the music he wrote indicated his sensitive and deeply
feeling nature, and though his conversation could hardly be called other
than cynical, nor his jokes puritanical, there was always in him a vein
of genuine--not sentimental, but perhaps romantic--love and admiration
for everything good; good in music, good in art, good in character.
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