I think if Dr. Kreener had not
been a great chemist he would have been a great painter, or
perhaps a politician, or even a poet. Triumph was his
birthright, and the fruits for which lesser men reached out in
vain fell ripe into his hands.
The favourite meeting-place for these oddly assorted boon
companions was the doctor's laboratory, which was divided from
the house by a moderately large garden. Here on a Sunday evening
one might meet the very "latest" composer, the sculptor bringing
a new "message," or the man destined to supplant with the ballet
the time-worn operatic tradition.
But while some of these would come and go, so that one could
never count with certainty upon meeting them, there was one who
never failed to be present when such an informal reception was
held. Of him I must speak at greater length, for a reason which
will shortly appear.
Andrews was the name by which he was known to the circles in
which he moved. No one, from Sir John Tennier, the fashionable
portrait painter, to Kruski, of the Russian ballet, disputed
Andrews's right to be counted one of the elect. Yet it was
known, nor did he trouble to hide the fact, that Andrews was
employed at a large printing works in South London, designing
advertisements.
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