To wean Mitchell from his amorous fancies he pretended that he was tired and wanted a holiday, and together they went down to a village on the South Coast near Brighton. There it was almost as it had been in the beginning. For a fortnight they were never out of each other's company. They slept in one bed and shared each other's clothes, paints, and money. They sketched the same subjects, took tremendous walks, and in the evening they talked as though there were no London, no Paris Café, no exhibitions, no dealers, no critics, nothing but themselves and their friendship and their artistic projects. Mendel was supremely happy. Never had he known such intimacy since the days of Artie Beech. But Mitchell was often depressed and moody. He had letters every day, and every evening he wrote at great length. One morning he had a letter which he crumpled up dramatically and thrust into his trousers pocket. "Gawd!" he said. "That's put the lid on it. I'm done for." "What is it?" asked Mendel, aghast. "I'll tell you when we get back to London. We must go back this afternoon. Eight o'clock in the Pot-au-Feu." The Pot-au-Feu was a little restaurant in Soho which Mitchell, Weldon, and some others had endeavoured to render immortal by decorating it with panels. In a room above it lived Hetty Finch. Mendel's thoughts flew to her, a figure of ill omen. He had not seen her for some time, and had imagined that she had so successfully got all she wanted and was so thoroughly established in her composite profession that she had no time for the younger artists. He had heard tales about her, and fancied she would succeed in hooking one of the older men for a husband. He said:-- "Why do you want to go back to that beastly place? Here it is good. I could stay here for six months." "Gawd!" said Mitchell dismally. "'Tis life. There's absolutely no getting away from it. Everything is swallowed up and nothing is left." He became very solemn and added:-- "If anything happens to me, Kühler, I want you to go to Greta Morrison and tell her that through everything I never forgot my happiness with her." "Happen!" cried Mendel. "What can happen?" "I'll tell you to-night," replied Mitchell gloomily, "at the Pot-au-Feu." And not another word did he say, neither during their morning's work, nor during lunch, nor in the train, nor in the taxi-cab that took them to Soho. "You wait outside," said Mitchell mysteriously.