We had luncheon, Sarah at the end of the table, with her back to the window, seated in a magnificent chair, as it were in some carved throne, whose back overtopped her head like a halo of gold. Sarah was my divinity once more. I was seated on her right. There were several other invited guests whose names I have forgotten, my mind was so full of her. Her voice rang in my ears. I understood not a word of what she was saying, but every syllable made me thrill. All at once the photographer was announced. Sarah bade him enter. He was a nice elderly gentleman of about sixty, with pretty white curly hair. He looked well pleased with himself. He approached Sarah, and placed in her outstretched hands a packet of proofs of the photographs he had taken. She looked at them slowly, one by one. Then, her golden voice broke forth in shrill notes that gave me a sinking feeling. I did not know what she was saying, but I saw her tear the photographs into a thousand and one shreds and hurl them at the feet of my fellow-countryman. He knew no French. Pale and disturbed, he asked me to translate what Sarah said. But she gave me no time to reply. She cried, this time in English: “Horrible! Horrible!” “What does she say?” he asked, making a trumpet of his hand about one ear. Thank Heaven, he was deaf! I signalled to him to bend down toward me so that I might whisper in his ear. “She says these portraits are unworthy of your work. She has seen some of your really wonderful photographs. You will have to come again and make another attempt.” “Oh, that’s it, is it?” he replied with a joyful smile on his lips. “She is quite right. The photographs are not good. But the weather was to blame. It wasn’t bright enough, and these are interiors. We shall have to make efforts several times in order to succeed. Do you want to make another appointment?” I promised, but without hope, and solely because out of kindness I had to promise. He grasped my divinity’s hand and mine, and went away. Sarah was destined on that day to cause me a happy surprise. She consented, when I asked it of her, to sit again, and I was sorry that the old man was not there, she was so grieved on account of the pain for which she was responsible. She really was grieved, and that made me love her all the more. Her temper, too keen, too glowing, had just resulted in a ruinous flare-up. And now here was this same fiery disposition manifesting itself sweet and kind. One day in London I went to a banquet of fifteen hundred covers given in honour of Sarah Bernhardt. I attended as one of those who were personally acquainted with her, and who were to be seated at her table in the centre of the great hall. She arrived nearly an hour late. She said how sorry she was to have kept us waiting, and blamed her coachman for the delay.