The last man to realize anything of all this was
Rupert Savage. Much as he loved critical apprecia-



222 WHEN THE TIDE TURNS

tion, he was entirely indifferent to the applause of
the crowd, and it never occurred to him to doubt
that all his fellow-artists were the same. He moved
about in the light, in the excitement, in a stimu-
lating world of intelligence and appreciation; he
crossed and recrossed the orbits of his fellow-stars,
always striking fire and light from the meeting. If
he met Edmund Heath in Regent Street, and they
stopped for a moment to talk, it seemed as though
the gay vista of Regent Street had been suddenly
prepared to he a setting for their words; the sun
shone for him, the twinkling lights of Westminster
under a haze of violet were beautiful for him;
Joachim played divinely, Marchesi sang supremely
for him; the waving banner of Die Meistersinger
or the black flag of Tristan und Isolde were unfurled
for him at Covent Garden.
He told Caird of this sense of joy and possession
in everything around him one day when they were
walking in Kensington Gardens. Caird's eyes
flashed, and he flung out an arm towards the palace-
like illusion of houses in Lancaster Gate floating in
the haze above the Serpentine.
