ng--there, in that exuberant vista of
gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and
upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted
and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation
broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled
on marble tables, I drew a deep breath, and 'This indeed,' said I to
myself, 'is life!'

It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermouth. Those who knew
Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name.
Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering
slowly up and down in search of vacant tables, or of tables occupied by
friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted
to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our table, with a
hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on
Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling
person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had
a thin vague beard--or rather, he had a chin on which a large number
of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an
odd-looking person; but in the 'nineties odd apparitions were more
frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and
I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in
aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat
of clerical kind but of Bohemian intention, and a grey waterproof cape
which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I
decided that 'dim' was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to
write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the
period.

The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made
up his mind to pause in front of it. 'You don't remember me,' he said in
a toneless voice.

Rothenstein brightly focussed him. 'Yes, I do,' he replied after a
moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory.
'Edwin Soames.'

'Enoch Soames,' said Enoch.

'Enoch Soames,' repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was
enough to have hit on the surname. 'We met in Paris two or three times
when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche.'

'And I came to your studio once.'

'Oh yes; I was sorry I was out.'

'But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know.... I
hear you're in Chelsea now.'

'Ye