His thoughts at first dwelt upon the man with whom he had just parted--a loyal straight, good fellow if ever there was one, he decided. The verdict was accompanied by a greater sense of self-dissatisfaction, a sensation nearer to shame and regret that he had for years experienced. It was an uncomfortable attitude of mind, and with characteristic love of ease, he hastened to obliterate it, by turning his attention elsewhere. His conversation with the doctor had conjured up so many mental pictures of the past, that he scarcely knew which of them to examine first. The salon in Anne Page’s flat, rose before him. With the retentive memory of a painter, François recalled minutely every detail of the charming room. He saw the deep-red curtains drawn across the three windows, the rose-coloured carpet, the lights shining like stars between the flowers. He saw Anne standing near the table at which coffee was served, receiving her guests with her lovely smile, and eager words of welcome. He remembered to the smallest detail of lace and trimming, a dress she often wore in the evening, a gown of purple silk which suited so admirably, her hair and the soft whiteness of her neck. Giroux and Bussières were talking to her, and he watched with amusement their excited faces, and vehement gestures. It was the evening after René had shown his new pictures. There had been a crowd of his friends in the studio all the afternoon; a crowd of eager interested men and women, standing before the canvases now so well known, so greatly prized. Bussières and Giroux he knew were talking of the latest picture, his masterpiece--the famous picture of the lady in the green dress, leaning back upon the sofa. François looked round the room already filled with people. He saw the white head of Matignon the critic, towering above the rest. He saw the dark alert face of Thouret bent towards Madame Valory, the painter of pastels delicate and fragile as herself. He saw Courtois the sculptor, in animated discussion with Bellet the new poet of audacities in rhythm. He heard René’s sudden amused laugh, and turned to look at him, as he moved from one group to the other, a little flushed and excited, his fair hair ruffled, his slim yet athletic figure suggesting the Englishman of sport and open-air pastimes, rather than the brilliant French painter he had even then become. Conspicuous among the crowd was the lady whose portrait he had recently painted. Blanche Aubriot was the wife of an elderly _roué_, who regarded her very pronounced flirtations with an indifference equal to that which she on her side extended towards his infidelities. She was a beautiful young woman of two or three and twenty, childless, soulless, and much admired. To-night she wore the green dress of the picture, and held her court with her usual piquante vivacity.