Parfitts themselves, his London agents, knew naught of him but his handwriting--on the backs of cheques in four figures.
They sold an average of five large and five small pictures for him every year.

These pictures arrived out of the unknown and the cheques went into the unknown.
Young artists, mute in admiration before the masterpieces from his brush which enriched all the national galleries of Europe (save, of course, that in Trafalgar Square), dreamt of him, worshipped him, and quarrelled fiercely about him, as the very symbol of glory, luxury and flawless accomplishment, never conceiving him as a man like themselves, with boots to lace up, a palette to clean, a beating heart, and an instinctive fear of solitude.
Finally there came to him the paramount distinction, the last proof that he was appreciated.

The press actually fell into the habit of mentioning his name without explanatory comment.

Exactly as it does not write "Mr.
A.J.Balfour, the eminent statesman," or "Sarah Bernhardt, the renowned actress," or "Charles Peace, the historic murderer," but simply "Mr.
A.J.

Balfour," "Sarah Bernhardt" or "Charles Peace"; so it wrote simply "Mr.Priam Farll." And no occupant of a smoker in a morning train ever took his pipe out of his mouth to ask, "What is the johnny ?" Greater honour in England hath no man.