To say that I was interested in this company is putting it mildly. The three women were distinct, individual, characteristic each in a different way. The Lady B. was all peace and repose, statuesque, weary, dark. Miss N. was like a ray of sunshine, pure morning light, delicate, gay, mobile. Mrs. W. was of thicker texture, redder blood, more human fire. She had a vigor past the comprehension of either, if not their subtlety of intellect, which latter is often much better. “Ah, yes, Degas. You like Degas, no doubt,” interpolated Mrs. W., recalling us. “A lovely pigture, don’t you think? Such color, such depth, such sympathy of treatment! Oh!” Mrs. W.’s hands were up in a pretty artistic gesture of delight. [Illustration: “LADY B. WAS EXTENDING HER HAND IN AN ALMOST PATHETIC FAREWELL”] “Oh, yes,” continued the Lady B., taking up the rapture, “it is saw human--saw perfect in its harmony! The hair it is divine! And the poor man! He lives alone now in Paris, quite dreary, not seeing any one. Aw, the tragedy of it! The tragedy of it!” Her delicately carved vanity-box of some odd workmanship--blue-and-white enamel, with points of coral in it--was lifted in one hand as expressing her great distress. I confess I was not much moved, and I looked quickly at Miss N. Her eyes, it seemed to me, held a subtle, apprehending twinkle. “And you?” It was Mrs. W. addressing me. “It is impressive, I think. I do not know as much of his work as I might, I am sorry to say.” “Aw, he is marvelous, wonderful! I am transported by the beauty and the depth of it all.” It was Mrs. W. talking, and I could not help rejoicing in the quality of her accent. Nothing is so pleasing to me in a woman of culture and refinement as that additional tang of remoteness which a foreign accent lends. If only all the lovely, cultivated women of the world would speak with a foreign accent in their native tongue I should like it better. It lends a touch of piquancy not otherwise obtainable. Our luncheon party was complete now, and we would probably have gone immediately into the dining-room except for another picture--by Picasso. Let me repeat here that before X. called my attention to Picasso’s cubical uncertainty in the London exhibition, I had never heard of him. Here in a dark corner of the room was the nude torso of a consumptive girl, her ribs showing, her cheeks colorless and sunken, her nose a wasted point, her eyes as hungry and sharp and lustrous as those of a bird. Her hair was really no hair--strings; and her thin, bony arms and shoulders were pathetic, decidedly morbid in their quality. To add to the morgue-like aspect of the composition, the picture was painted in a pale bluish-green key.