He was very blunt about it. I was consigned behind the screen, and came back naked to the world, to pose before a critical eye, now additionally armed with a pair of glasses. He decided I would do, and I got to work there and then as he had a picture on the stocks. I don't quite know where he intended to exhibit that picture; even the French salon I should have thought, would have shied at it. It represented a pretty girl at her toilet. She was naked, all save her stockings, and she was taking the advice of an elderly man with her, as to which set of underclothes she should select. The flesh tints of the girl were gorgeously done, and the whole thing was full of suggestiveness. The man in the bedroom was fully dressed.
“Still, this is a little apart from the story, isn't it.” interrupted Gladys. “I have been an artist's model myself, but it isn't one of the episodes in my life that I care to dwell on. Still an artist hadn't any of the negative attributes. He was not a mannikin with crinkly skin over him, but a big, bluff young man, fresh from the Slade school, who used to make me pose for an hour or so, then fuck me on the sofa for another hour or so, and finally take me out to a remarkably fine lunch. It was a sweet thing, his penis, a good eight inches long, and perfectly shaped; and the best of it was he knew how to use it so as to give pleasure to the girl as well as to himself. How he could fuck!”
“Talking of penises,” I break in, “what do you consider a really large one?'
“Ten inches, of course, is Brobdlinagian,” answers Gladys, “but I must say that I have met a good many which measured quite eight on the foot rule. Still, after all, the size of a man's weapon is only a matter of curiosity; it is a thing which pleases one to look at, but I don't think at all, the actual length or girth makes any difference to the enjoyment of the fornication. It's the way he uses it.”
I remember a negroe who once-but it's an awful story, and I'll spare you telling- still he had a thing on him which must have measured a good foot. George Reynolds, my seducer, though not a very big man, had a pretty plaything to flatter a girl with.
However, to get back once more to the tale. A few days after my disappointing interview with Lewis, Madame told me she thought it quite time an excursion was made to the agents. To gain that end she first proposed to introduce me to a journalist friend of hers who had some little influence in theatrical circles.
Madame showed me the paper with which her friend was connected, a publication bound in an offensively light green color, and labeled “The Moon” in heavy black lettering. I knew the paper, it was one of Charley Lathmere's favorites. It contained weekly stories, under the heading of “What the Man in the Moon Thinks” that suited Charley's taste exactly. They were very much up to date and frequently improper, wherefore it was with considerable surprise that I subsequently learned that they were all written by an elderly widowed lady, resident in Scotland.
We found the office of the “Moon” at last in a small street running from the Strand, and Madame sent her card in.
The office boy took her card through an inner door and we heard the sound of his voice, but none answering. Some minutes passed, but dead silence reigned in the room within. Then Madame, who was becoming impatient, signed to me to follow, and herself followed the boy through the door. We found ourselves in a large, comfortably furnished room that looked on to a small courtyard and was quite apart from the distracting noises of the outside world. In the center of the room stood a square table of considerable size, bearing a large variety of newspapers, a whiskey bottle, several syphons, and a half dozen glasses or so. In three armchairs in various corners of the room, sat three men all fast asleep. One of them was tall and fair, his face was clean shaven, and he was rather haggard, he was dressed a little elaborately, and wore a large buttonholes in the lapel of his frockcoat I should have guessed his age to be about twenty six. A second was of medium size, and might have been any age. His hair fell in thick masses about the sides of his head, his mustache were twisted upwards with an assumption of ferocity but in his sleep it was easy to see that he was really a very mild man. In the best armchair, and nearest the fire, sat a little man whom I took to at once. He was short, and of a well rounded, comfortable figure, but it was in the extreme youthfulness of his appearance, that lay his charm. His hair was long, and fell in carefully disposed ringlets over his forehead into his blue eyes. His whole chubby countenance was wrapped in a seraphic smile, and in his left hand he still grasped a tumbler. He was snoring somewhat and with each snore the smile broadened across his face; doubtless he was dreaming some happy boyish fancy, and his spirit was wandering in some pure noble land, far away from the worldly turmoil of the Strand.
“The long one is Mr. Annesley,” said Madame, and advancing towards him she prodded him sharply in the ribs with her umbrella. He uncurled like a coiled spring that is suddenly released, and stood bolt upright, his hands instinctively seeking his hair to see if it was neatly brushed.
“My dear Madame Karl,” he ejaculated, “a thousand pardons for the condition of the men in the Moon, but it is the day after publishing day, you see, and we are taking a well deserved rest. Will you come with me into the next room?”
I followed them rather reluctantly, for I was anxious to see what the little man was like when awake. We came into a comfortable little room wherein sat a young lady who was doing her hair before a glass, on the table before her lay several envelopes addressed to the editresses of ladies papers.
“This is Lilly,” said Mr. Annesley, “Lilly of the Valley,” we call her, because she toils not, etc., but it is not quite fair, because, though she does not toil, and probably, if you set her before a spinning wheel she'd think it was sort of a new bicycle, yet she spins the most excellent yarns to undesirable callers.”
“Oh, Mr. Annesley,” said the girl, “you do tell them,” and finishing the tying of her hair with a determined twist, she left the room. Almost immediately we heard the sound of a smart blow on flesh followed by a short boyish cry.
“That's nothing,” said Mr. Annesley, that's only Lilly's way of telling the boy to go and stand outside while she sits in his chair. And now, Madame Karl, I am very much at your service, what can I do for you?”
“First of all,” said Madame, “let me introduce you to Miss Blanche La Mare, a protegee of mine, who wants to go on the stage.”
Mr. Annesley squeezed my hand most affectionately, and then answered. “That is at once a very easy and a very difficult job, as doubtless you know, Madame Karl. Miss La Mare is very pretty and I am sure very clever but unfortunately that is not all that managers want. Has she seen anyone yet?”
I hesitated to speak of Lewis, but Madame took up the tale for me, and moreover told it with some circumstance and just a little exageration. The young man did not seem surprised, but he did not on the other hand seem very confident that I should find the agents much more demurely behaved.
It was suggested that we should lunch first; then I might make my visit to an agent Mr. Annesley knew. The fat little man, Walker Bird, was awakened to make our party a square one, and we hansomed off to a place called Estlakes.
I had Walker Bird for my cab companion. I think the other man would have very much liked to have leered after me, but Madame captured him at once and he had no choice but go gently.
I expected the fat little man to improve the occasion, and he certainly did not disappoint me. The street was too open and the luncheon place so crowded that kissing was out of the question, but he made no bones about squeezing my hand affectionately.