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HE last time I saw Cosmo Monkhouse was in the garden of George F. Watts, in Melbury Road. "Signor" was entertaining, and as I descended the steps, leading from the studio to the garden, the first person I met was Monkhouse, who greeted me with, "Isidora Duncan is dancing my poems!" The dear old man was brimful of joy and merriment, because the graceful American was following the measure and rhythm of his verse in harmonious movements of the body, as they were read slowly, in musical cadences.

Isidora's languorous undulations among the rhododendrons and under the deep purple clematis that hung in flowering festoons above her, against a background formed of the eager faces of the gaily dressed guests, made a picture to thrill a poet; and the sensitive eye of Monkhouse gathered in the vision with the greater emotion because he felt that he had inspired it.

"Signor" stood watching, his fine profile, white beard, and half-mediæval dress adding to the quaint and unusual picture a note in form and colour that raised the scene far above the conventional level of a full-dress garden party. I had seen Isidora dance years before, and I have seen her since, imitating the movements of the Greek dance as depicted on the old vases; but the pleasure I received in Watts's garden was enhanced by the frankly expressed