There might have been a shade less of the Bohemian and a shade more of the successful artist about him.
But Rooke would never suffer from the inordinate complacency which spoils so many successful men.

Always it would be tempered by that odd, cynical humour of his.

Beautiful ladies who gushed at him merely amused him, and received in return some charming compliment or other that rang as hollow as a kettle-drum.

Politicians who came to him for their portraits were gently made to feel that their favourite oratorical attitude--which they inevitably assumed when asked to pose themselves quite naturally--was not really overwhelmingly effective, while royalties who perforce condescended to attend his studio--since he flatly declined to paint them in their palaces--found that he was inclined to overlook the matter of their royal blood and to portray them as though they were merely men and women.
There was an amusing little story going the rounds in connection with a certain peeress--one of the "new rich" fraternity--who had recently sat to Rooke for her portrait.

Her husband's title had presumably been conferred in recognition of the arduous services--of an industrial and financial nature--which he had rendered during the war.