They never really got on together at all.  Cyril thought him a bear, and he thought Cyril effeminate.  He was effeminate, I suppose, in some things, though he was a very good rider and a capital fencer.  In fact he got the foils before he left Eton.  But he was very languid in his manner, and not a little vain of his good looks, and had a strong objection to football.  The two things that really gave him pleasure were poetry and acting.  At Eton he was always dressing up and reciting Shakespeare, and when he went up to Trinity he became a member of the A.D.C. his first term.  I remember I was always very jealous of his acting.  I was absurdly devoted to him; I suppose because we were so different in some things.  I was a rather awkward, weakly lad, with huge feet, and horribly freckled.  Freckles run in Scotch families just as gout does in English families.  Cyril used to say that of the two he preferred the gout; but he always set an absurdly high value on personal appearance, and once read a paper before our debating society to prove that it was better to be good-looking than to be good.  He certainly was wonderfully handsome.  People who did not like him, Philistines and college tutors, and young men reading for the Church, used to say that he was merely pretty; but there was a great deal more in his face than mere prettiness.  I think he was the most splendid creature I ever saw, and nothing could exceed the grace of his movements, the charm of his manner.  He fascinated everybody who was worth fascinating, and a great many people who were not.  He was often wilful and petulant, and I used to think him dreadfully insincere.  It was due, I think, chiefly to his inordinate desire to please.  Poor Cyril!  I told him once that he was contented with very cheap triumphs, but he only laughed.  He was horribly spoiled.  All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled.  It is the secret of their attraction.

“However, I must tell you about Cyril’s acting.  You know that no actresses are allowed to play at the A.D.C.  At least they were not in my time.  I don’t know how it is now.  Well, of course, Cyril was always cast for the girls’ parts, and when As You Like It was produced he played Rosalind.  It was a marvellous performance.  In fact, Cyril Graham was the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen.  It would be impossible to describe to you the beauty, the delicacy, the refinement of the whole thing.  It made an immense sensation, and the horrid little theatre, as it was then, was crowded every night.  Even when I read the play now I can’t help thinking of Cyril.  It might have been written for him.  The next term he took his degree, and came to London to read for the diplomatic.  But he never did any work.  He spent his days in reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets, and his evenings at the theatre.  He was, of course, wild to go on the stage.  It was all that I and Lord Crediton could do to prevent him.  Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be alive now.  It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give good advice is absolutely fatal.  I hope you will never fall into that error.  If you do, you will be sorry for it.”—­The Portrait of Mr. W. H.