Mendel knew what was meant, for at lunch he had been conscious of horrified eyes staring at him and had wished the floor would open and swallow him up. He muttered incoherent words of thanks and wanted to rush away, but Mitchell caught him by the arm and said:-- "I say, we artists must hang together. There aren't many of this crowd who will come to anything, and the Pro thinks no end of you. Won't you come along and have tea with me and some of the other fellows?" Mendel went with him, delighting in the young man's easy, condescending Public School manner and pleasant, crisp voice, in which he spoke with an exaggerated emphasis. "Gawd!" he said. "It makes me sick to see all the fools and the women wasting their time there, scratching away, while those of us who have any talent and could learn anything are left to flounder along as best we may. Do you smoke?" Mendel had never smoked, but he did not like to refuse. He took a cigarette, which very soon made him feel sick and giddy. He lurched along with Mitchell until they came to a tea-shop, where they found two other young men whose faces were familiar. "I've brought Kühler," said Mitchell. "He's a genius. This is Weldon, who is also a genius, and Kessler, who can't paint for nuts, and I'm a blame fool, though it's not my fault. My father's a great man. Gawd! what can you do when your own father takes the shine out of you at every turn?" They began to talk of pictures and of one Calthrop, who was apparently the greatest painter the world had ever seen and a product of the Detmold. "Sells everything he puts his name to," said Kessler. "What a man!" said Weldon. "Goes his own way, absolutely believing in his art. If they like it, well and good. If they don't like it, let 'em lump it. He's as often drunk as not, and as for women . . . !" Weldon and Kessler deserted pictures for women. Mitchell grew more and more glum, while Mendel was still feeling the effects of the cigarette too strongly to be able to take in a word. "Gawd!" said Mitchell. "There they go, talking away, absolutely incapable of keeping anything clear of women. I can't stand it." He dragged Mendel away, leaving his friends to pay the bill; and, as they walked, he explained that he was in love, and could not stand all that bawdy rubbish, and he elaborated a theory that an artist needed to be in love to keep himself alive to the sanctity of the human body, familiarity with which was apt to breed contempt or an excessive curiosity. Mendel said that he also had been in love, and he gave a vivid account of his raptures with Sara. "My God!" cried Mitchell; "you don't mean to say that she came to you--a girl like that?" "Yes," said Mendel; "I was never so happy." "But, I say, weren't you afraid?" "She was very beautiful." Mitchell pondered this for a long time. He seemed to be profoundly shaken. At last he said:-- "But with a girl you _loved?_" "I loved her when she was there." "But when she wasn't there?"