She jumped up and put on her coat, like a ponderous curtain showering down to her heels. Peep-shows were ended! “Come, let’s have some dinner. I’m hungry. We can discuss this problem better after a beefsteak!” A Porterhouse would have fitted, Tarr thought. He followed obediently and silently. He was glad that Anastasya had taken things into her hands. The positions that these fundamental matters got him into! Should he allow himself to be overhauled and reformed by this abnormal beauty? He was not altogether enjoying himself. He felt a ridiculous amateur. He was a butcher in his spare moments. This immensely intellectual ox, covered with prizes and pedigrees, overwhelmed him. You required not a butcher, but an artist, for that! He was not an artist in anything but oil-paint. Oil-paint and meat were singularly alike. They had reciprocal potentialities. But he was afraid of being definitely distracted. The earlier coldness all appeared cunning; his own former coldness was the cunning of destiny. He felt immensely pleased with himself as he walked down the Boulevard Clichy with this perfect article rolling and sweeping beside him. No bourgeoise this time! He could be proud of this anywhere! Absolute perfection! Highest quality obtainable. “The face that launched a thousand ships.” A thousand ships crowded in her gait. There was nothing highfalutin about her, Burne-Jonesque, Grail-lady, or Irish-romantic. Perfect meat, perfect sense, accent of Minnesota, music of the Steppes! And all that was included under the one inadequate but pleasantly familiar heading, _German_. He became more and more impressed with what was _German_ about her. He took her to a large, expensive, and quiet restaurant. They began with oysters. He had never eaten oysters before. Prudence had prevented him. She laughed very much at this. “You are a savage, Tarr!” The use of his surname was a tremendous caress. “You are afraid of typhoid, and your palate is as conservative as an ox’s. Give me a kiss!” She put her lips out; he kissed them with solemnity and concentration, adjusting his glasses afterwards. They discussed eating for some time. He discovered he knew nothing about it. “Why, man, you never think!” Tarr considered. “No, I’m not very observant in many things. But I have a defence. All that part of me is rudimentary. But that is as it should be.” “How—as it should be?” “I don’t disperse myself. I specialize on necessities.” “Don’t you call food⸺?” “Not in the way you’ve been considering it. Listen. Life is art’s rival and vice versa.” “I don’t see the opposition.” “No, because you mix them up. You are the archenemy of any picture.” “I? Nonsense! But art comes out of life, in any case. What is art?” “My dear girl—life with all the nonsense taken out of it. Will that do?” “Yes. But what is art—especially?” She insisted with her hands on a plastic answer. “Are we in life, now? _What is art?_”