I should have told you, only you just arrived, Martha put in. I had no idea that Peter would come in today. He is the American Flaubert or Anatole France or something. He is writing a book. What _is_ your book about, Peter? Whiffle smiled, drew out a cigarette-case of Toledo work, extracted a cigarette from it, and said, I haven't the slightest idea. Then, as if he thought this might be construed as rudeness, or false modesty, or a rather viscous attempt at secrecy, he added, I really haven't, not the remotest. I want to talk to you about it.... That's why I wanted to meet you. Martha says that you know ... well, that you _know_. You really should be painting Mr. Van Vechten now, said Clara Barnes, with a trace of malice. He has the right expression. I hope I haven't interrupted your work, said Peter. No, I'm through today, Martha rejoined. We're neither of us in the mood. Besides it's absurd to try to paint in this light. Painting, Peter went on, is not any easier than writing. Always the search for--for what? he asked suddenly, turning to me. For truth, I suppose, I replied. I thought you would say that but that's not what I meant, that's not at all what I meant. This logogriph rather concluded that subject, for Peter did not explain what it was that he did mean. Neither did he wear a conscious air of obfuscation. He rambled on about many things, spoke of new people, new books, new music, and he also mentioned Mary Garden. I have heard of Mary Garden for the first time today, I said, and I am beginning to be interested. You haven't seen her? demanded Peter. But she is stupendous, soul, body, imagination, intellect, everything! How few there are. A lyric Mélisande, a caressing Manon, a throbbingly wicked Chrysis. She is the cult in Paris and the Opéra-Comique is the Temple where she is worshipped. I think some day this new religion will be carried to America. He stopped. Let me see, what am I doing tonight? O! yes, I know. I won't do that. Will you go with me to hear Aphrodite? Of course, I will. I have just come to Paris and I want to do and hear and see everything. Well, we'll go, he announced, but I noted that his tone was curiously indecisive. We'll go to dinner first. You're not going to dinner yet? Martha demanded rather querulously. Not quite yet. Then, turning to Clara, How's the Voice? It was my first intimation that Clara had thus symbolized her talent in the third person. People were not expected to refer to her as Clara or Miss Barnes; she was the Voice. The Voice is doing very well indeed, Clara, now quite mollified, rejoined. I'm studying Manon, and if you like Mary Garden, wait until you hear me! Peter continued to manipulate Clara with the proper address. The conversation bubbled or languished, I forget which; at any rate, a half hour or so later, Peter and I were seated in a taxi-cab, bound for Foyot's where he had decided we would dine; at least I thought he had decided, but soon he seemed doubtful.