Mr. Andrew Lumley had died suddenly in the night of heart failure, and the newspapers woke up to the fact that we had been entertaining a great man unawares. There was an obituary¹ in "leader" type of nearly two columns. He had been older than I thought—close on seventy—and The Times spoke² of him as a man who might have done anything he pleased in public life, but had chosen to give to a small coterie³ of friends what was due to the country. I read of his wit and learning, his amazing connoisseurship⁴, his social gifts, his personal charm. According to the writer, he was the finest type of cultivated amateur, a Beckford with more than a Beckford's wealth and none of his folly⁵. Large private charities were hinted at, and a hope was expressed that some part at least of his collections might come to the nation.

 

The halfpenny papers said the same thing in their own way. One declared he reminded it of Atticus, another of Maecenas, another of Lord Houghton. There must have been a great run on biographical dictionaries in the various offices. Chapman's own particular rag said that, although this kind of philanthropist was a dilettante⁶ and a back-number, yet Mr. Lumley was a good specimen⁷ of the class and had been a true friend to the poor. I thought Chapman would have a fit when he read this. After that he took in the Morning Post.

 

It was no business of mine to explode the myth. Indeed I couldn't even if I had wanted to, for no one would have believed me unless I produced proofs, and these proofs were not to be made public. Besides I had an honest compunction. He had had, as he expressed it, a good run for his money, and I wanted the run to be properly rounded off.

 

Three days later I went to the funeral. It was a wonderful occasion. Two

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