“Much,” answered Susie promptly, “but he’s always in that condition, and the further he gets from sobriety the more charming he is. He’s the only man in this room of whom you’ll never hear a word of evil. The strange thing is that he’s very nearly a great painter. He has the most fascinating sense of colour in the world, and the more intoxicated he is, the more delicate and beautiful is his painting. Sometimes, after more than the usual number of _apéritifs_, he will sit down in a café to do a sketch, with his hand so shaky that he can hardly hold a brush; he has to wait for a favourable moment, and then he makes a jab at the panel. And the immoral thing is that each of these little jabs is lovely. He’s the most delightful interpreter of Paris I know, and when you’ve seen his sketches—he’s done hundreds, of unimaginable grace and feeling and distinction—you can never see Paris in the same way again.” The little maid who looked busily after the varied wants of the customers stood in front of them to receive Arthur’s order. She was a hard-visaged creature of mature age, but she looked neat in her black dress and white cap; and she had a motherly way of attending to these people, with a capacious smile of her large mouth which was full of charm. “I don’t mind what I eat,” said Arthur. “Let Margaret order my dinner for me.” “It would have been just as good if I had ordered it,” laughed Susie. They began a lively discussion with Marie as to the merits of the various dishes, and it was only interrupted by Warren’s hilarious expostulations. “Marie, I precipitate myself at your feet, and beg you to bring me a _poule au riz_.” “Oh, but give me one moment, _monsieur_,” said the maid. “Do not pay any attention to that gentleman. His morals are detestable, and he only seeks to lead you from the narrow path of virtue.” Arthur protested that on the contrary the passion of hunger occupied at that moment his heart to the exclusion of all others. “Marie, you no longer love me,” cried Warren. “There was a time when you did not look so coldly upon me when I ordered a bottle of white wine.” The rest of the party took up his complaint, and all besought her not to show too hard a heart to the bald and rubicund painter. “_Mais si, je vous aime, Monsieur Warren,_” she cried, laughing, “_Je vous aime tous, tous._” She ran downstairs, amid the shouts of men and women, to give her orders. “The other day the Chien Noir was the scene of a tragedy,” said Susie. “Marie broke off relations with her lover, who is a waiter at Lavenue’s, and would have no reconciliation. He waited till he had a free evening, and then came to the room downstairs and ordered dinner. Of course, she was obliged to wait on him, and as she brought him each dish he expostulated with her, and they mingled their tears.”