Oliver was aflame with excitement over the trip to Paris. She spoke of it with an almost religious exaltation. As usual, her emotion was entirely uncontrolled, became a physical tremulation, and she reminded Mendel of a wobbling blanc-mange. The plan was to have a fortnight in Paris and a week at Boulogne, for bathing and gambling at the Casino. No sooner had he left London than Mendel felt his cares and anxieties fall away from him, and he began to wish he had brought Jessie Petrie. He proposed to wire for her from Folkestone, but Logan pointed out that Oliver could not stand women and was jealous of them. "She'd say Jessie was making eyes at me," he said. "And if she made eyes at you she'd be almost as bad." In that Mendel could sympathize with Oliver. He was himself often suddenly, unreasonably, and violently jealous of other men over women for whom he did not care a fig. He set himself to be nice to Oliver, and she in her holiday mood responded, so that on the boat and in the Paris train Logan was sunk in a gloomy silence, and in the hotel at night, in the next room, Mendel could hear him storming at her, refusing to have anything to do with her, threatening to go home next day unless she promised to keep her claws, as he said, off Kühler. She promised, and they embarked further upon their perilous voyage in search of an unattainable land of satiety. * * * * * Their hotel was near the Montparnasse station, and they discovered a café in the Boulevard Raspail which was frequented by artists and models, one or two of whom Mendel recognized as former habitués of the Paris Café. They were soon drawn into the artist world, and except that he went to the Louvre instead of to the National Gallery for peace and refreshment, Mendel often thought he might just as well be in London. There was the same feverish talk, the same abuse of successful artists, the same depreciation of old masters, but there was more body to the talk, and sometimes a Frenchman, finding speech useless with this shy, good-looking Jew, would make himself clear with what English he could muster and a rapid, skilful drawing. For the most part, however, he had to rely on Logan's paraphrase, until one day in the Boulevard St. Germain he ran into that Thompson, lamented by Jessie Petrie, the painter of stripes and triangles. Thompson was a little senior to Mendel at the Detmold, had hardly spoken to him in the old days, but was now delighted to meet a familiar London face. "I _am_ glad!" he said. "Come and see my place. How are they all in London--poor old Calthrop and poor old Froitzheim? I should have killed myself if I'd stayed in London; nothing but talk and women, with work left to find its way in where it can. Here work comes first. I suppose they haven't even heard of Van Gogh in London?" Mendel had to confess that he had never heard of Van Gogh. "A Dutchman," explained Thompson, "and he cut off his ear and sent it to Gauguin. Ever heard of Gauguin?"