“Ah.  Psychotherapy.”

“All of the characters in your poem, ‘The Vision of Helen,’ are neurotics.  They suffer from morbid fears, delusions, hysteria, violent mental and emotional complexities.  A text-book in madness.”

Grimshaw laughed.  “You flatter me.  I am attracted by neurotic types.  Insanity has its source in the unconscious, and we English are afraid of looking inward.”  He glanced around the crowded room with an amused and cynical look.  “Most of these people are as bad as my Trojans, Doctor Fenton.  Only they conceal their badness, and it isn’t good for them.”

We talked for a few moments.  I amused him, I think, by my diagnosis of his Helen’s mental malady.  But he soon tired of me and his restless gaze went over my head, searching for admiration.  Esther Levenson brought Ellen Terry over and he forgot me entirely in sparkling for the good lady—­showing his teeth, shaking his yellow locks, bellowing like a centaur.

“The fellow’s an ass,” I decided.

But when “The Labyrinth” was produced, I changed my mind.  There again was that disturbing loveliness.  It was a story of the passionate Florence of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and Esther Levenson drifted through the four long acts against a background of Tuscan walls, scarlet hangings, oaths, blood-spilling, dark and terrible vengeance.  Grimshaw took London by the throat and put it down on its knees.

Then for a year or two he lived on his laurels, lapping up admiration like a drunkard in his cups.  Unquestionably, Esther Levenson was his mistress, since she presided over his house in Cheyne Walk.  They say she was not the only string to his lute.  A Jewess, a Greek poetess, and a dancer from Stockholm made up his amorous medley at that time.  Scandalized society flocked to his drawing-room, there to be received by Simonetta herself, wearing the blanched draperies and tragic pearls of the labyrinth he had made for her.  Grimshaw offered no apologies.  He was the uncrowned laureate and kings can do no wrong.  He was painted by the young Sargent, of course, and by the aging Whistler—­you remember the butterfly’s portrait of him in a yellow kimono leaning against a black mantel?  I, for one, think he was vastly amused by all this fury of admiration; he despised it and fed upon it.  If he had been less great, he would have been utterly destroyed by it, even then.

I went to Vienna, and lost track of him for several years.  Then I heard that he had married a dear friend of mine—­Lady Dagmar Cooper, one of the greatest beauties and perhaps the sternest prude in England.  She wrote me, soon after that unbelievable mating:  “I have married Cecil Grimshaw.  I know you won’t approve; I do not altogether approve myself.  He is not like the men I have known—­not at all English.  But he intrigues me; there is a sense of power behind his awfulness—­you see I know that he is awful!  I think I will be able to make him look at things—­I mean visible, material things—­my way.  We have taken a house in town and he has promised to behave—­no more Chelsea parties, no dancers, no yellow waistcoats and chrysanthemums.  That was all very well for his ‘student’ days.  Now that he is a personage, it will scarcely do.  I am tremendously interested and happy....”