While we ate our ices, he conquered the girl with high-flown and exaggerated compliments, and finally had his way; and as for the liqueur, success found him more or less indifferent to its consumption, for the jest had been nearly all bravado. James J. Tissot was an occasional contributor to _Vanity Fair_. His work can hardly be called caricature; for the sketches were rather characteristic and undoubtedly brilliant drawings of his subjects. He was achieving considerable popularity (especially with dealers) by painting lively scenes--usually in grey tones--of Greenwich breakfast parties, modern subjects with a pretty female figure as the centre of attraction. Tissot had a strong personality, and from the psychological point of view his story is extraordinary. The woman to whom he was devoted (and who figured so frequently in his pictures) died, and Tissot, overcome with grief, perhaps with remorse, left England and went to the East to seek distraction in foreign travel. In Palestine he stayed and painted; and here he drew a series of religious pictures illustrating the life of Christ. They were exhibited at the Doré Gallery on his return to England, and showed an extraordinary change of outlook. He became at first extremely religious, and then the victim of religious mania. Later, he surprised his world by becoming a monk, driven by his devotion to the memory of the dead woman to the extremities which often arise when a strong character is suddenly disrupted by great sorrow. Finally, he entered a monastery, where he eventually lost his reason and died. He used to say in his sane days, when talking about his work, and about art in general, "If you feel the drapery or the hang of a garment in a drawing is shaky, and your model cannot understand the subtleties of the pose you require, get a cheval glass, pose yourself, if possible, and sketch your reflection. Sometimes it is astonishing how successful the result is." Before I proceed any further with my recollections of _Vanity Fair_ I think perhaps I might jog the reader's memory by a few reminiscences of the early days of that paper, which was almost the first paper which could be called a society journal. _The Owl_ was the first to be published of that type, and out of this pioneer arose _Vanity Fair_. In those days the eager public paid a shilling for their weekly publications; and _Vanity Fair_ was founded by Mr. Gibson Bowles (better known as "Tommy"), since a member of Parliament, and at that time the best editor the paper ever had. He had the gift of the right word in the right place; and it may be remarked that a dislike of Dickens prevented any quotations from that well-known author from entering the pages, and that he opposed the fashion of that period of alluding to a lady of title with the Christian name as a prefix.