It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermouth. Those who knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables, or of tables occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein’s eye. He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had a thin vague beard--or rather, he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the ‘nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind but of Bohemian intention, and a grey waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I decided that ‘dim’ was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period. The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. ‘You don’t remember me,’ he said in a toneless voice. Rothenstein brightly focussed him. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. ‘Edwin Soames.’ ‘Enoch Soames,’ said Enoch. ‘Enoch Soames,’ repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. ‘We met in Paris two or three times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche.’ ‘And I came to your studio once.’ ‘Oh yes; I was sorry I was out.’ ‘But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know.... I hear you’re in Chelsea now.’ ‘Yes.’ I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that ‘hungry’ was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry for what? He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down and have something to drink. Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape with a gesture which--had not those wings been waterproof--might have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an absinthe. ‘Je me tiens toujours fidele,’ he told Rothenstein, ‘a la sorciere glauque.’ ‘It is bad for you,’ said Rothenstein dryly. ‘Nothing is bad for one,’ answered Soames. ‘Dans ce monde il n’y a ni de bien ni de mal.’ ‘Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?’