His standing on the platform was a little ceremonious and military. He was taking his bearings. Body and belongings with him were always moved about with certain strategy. At last, with racial menace, he had his things swept together, saying heavily: “Un viagre!” Ernst Volker was not in, but had left word he would be there after dinner. It was in a pension. He rented a studio as well in the garden behind. The house was rather like a French Public Baths, two-storied, of a dirty purple colour. Kreisler looked up at it and felt that a very public sort of people must live there, looking big and idle in their rooms and constantly catching the eye of the stranger on the pavement. He was led to the studio in rear of the house, and asked to wait. He turned round several long canvases and was astonished to find dashing ladies in large hats before him. “Ha ha! Well, I’m damned! Bravo, Ernst!” he exploded in his dull solitude, extremely amused. Volker had not done this in Rome.—Even there he had given indications of latent virtuosity, but had been curbed by classic presences. Since arriving in Paris he had blossomed prodigiously. He dealt out a vulgar vitality by the peck to each sitter, and they forgave him for making them comparatively “ugly.” He flung a man or woman on to nine feet of canvas and pummelled them on it for a couple of hours, until they promised to remain there or were incapable of moving, so to speak. He had never been able to treat people like this in any other way of life, and was grateful to painting for the experience. He always appeared to feel he would be expected to apologize for his brutal behaviour as an artist, and was determined not to do so. A half-hour later, on his return, the servant told him somebody was waiting in the studio. With face not exhibiting joyful surprise, but rather the collected look of a man of business arriving at his office, he walked out quickly across the garden. When he saw Kreisler the business look disappeared. Nothing of his private self remained for the moment, all engulfed in his friend’s personality. “But, Ernst! What beautiful pictures! What pleasant company you left me to wait amongst!—How are you? I am glad to see you again!” “Had a good journey? Your letter amused me!—So Rome became too hot?” “A little! My dear chap, it was eine ganz verdammte klemme! In this last scuffle I lost—but I _lost_!—half the clothes off my back! But chiefly Italian clothes; that is fortunate!” “Why didn’t you write?” “Oh, it wasn’t serious enough to call for help.” He dismissed the out-of-date notion at once!—“This is a nice place you’ve got.”—Kreisler looked round as though measuring it. He noticed Volker’s discomfort. He felt he was examining something more intimate than the public aspect of a dwelling. It was as though his friend were expecting a wife, whom Kreisler had not met, to turn up suddenly. “Have you dined?—I waited until eight. Have you…?”