There were other men, of course, on the fringe of the brotherhood, and each of us had our little separate circle; we did not form a mutual admiration society and advertise ourselves as a kind of exclusive, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan swashbucklery; but, in a quiet way, we recognised our quadruple union of hearts, and talked amazing rubbish and committed unspeakable acts of lunacy and dreamed impossible dreams in a very delightful, and perhaps unsuspected, intimacy.

We were now in our middle and late thirties--all save poor Tom Castleton, over whom, in an alien grave, the years of the Lord passed unheeded.

Poor old chap! He was the son of the acting-manager of a well-known theatre and used to talk to us of the starry theatre-folk, his family intimates, as though they were haphazard occupants of an omnibus.

How we envied him! And he was forever writing plays which he read to us; which plays, I remember, were always on the verge of being produced by Irving.

We believed in him firmly.