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Between Paul and Barnabas was Michael Chester, a small man, one shoulder higher than the other, and with one leg shrunken and twisted. He had had a pencil in his hand since babyhood. In illustration and line work he excelled, though his choice of subjects was morbid. His paintings of the river and grey London streets were beautiful. There was something almost Whistler-ish about them. He had the heart of a true poet, and the tongue of a cynic, and he played the violin like a god. An ultra-morbidity regarding his own appearance had lost him to the world as a public violinist. Nothing would have induced him to mount a platform or enter a crowded drawing-room. The studios alone were given the benefit of his talent.

And finally, master of the ceremonies, seated on another packing-case was Barnabas—tall, brown-haired, green-eyed, and sunny hearted, outwardly indolent, and beloved of his fellow-men. He followed in the footsteps of Paul as a portrait painter, though he was apt to say it was “the devil of a way behind.”