“She wept in floods,” interrupted a youth with neatly brushed hair and fat nose. “She wept all over our food, and we ate it salt with tears. We besought her not to yield; except for our encouragement she would have gone back to him; and he beats her.” Marie appeared again, with no signs now that so short a while ago romance had played a game with her, and brought the dishes that had been ordered. Susie seized once more upon Arthur Burdon’s attention. “Now please look at the man who is sitting next to Mr Warren.” Arthur saw a tall, dark fellow with strongly-marked features, untidy hair, and a ragged black moustache. “That is Mr O’Brien, who is an example of the fact that strength of will and an earnest purpose cannot make a painter. He’s a failure, and he knows it, and the bitterness has warped his soul. If you listen to him, you’ll hear every painter of eminence come under his lash. He can forgive nobody who’s successful, and he never acknowledges merit in anyone till he’s safely dead and buried.” “He must be a cheerful companion,” answered Arthur. “And who is the stout old lady by his side, with the flaunting hat?” “That is the mother of Madame Rouge, the little palefaced woman sitting next to her. She is the mistress of Rouge, who does all the illustrations for _La Semaine_. At first it rather tickled me that the old lady should call him _mon gendre_, my son-in-law, and take the irregular union of her daughter with such a noble unconcern for propriety; but now it seems quite natural.” The mother of Madame Rouge had the remains of beauty, and she sat bolt upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified gesture. Arthur looked away quickly, for, catching his eye, she gave him an amorous glance. Rouge had more the appearance of a prosperous tradesman than of an artist; but he carried on with O’Brien, whose French was perfect, an argument on the merits of Cézanne. To one he was a great master and to the other an impudent charlatan. Each hotly repeated his opinion, as though the mere fact of saying the same thing several times made it more convincing. “Next to me is Madame Meyer,” proceeded Susie. “She was a governess in Poland, but she was much too pretty to remain one, and now she lives with the landscape painter who is by her side.” Arthur’s eyes followed her words and rested on a cleanshaven man with a large quantity of grey, curling hair. He had a handsome face of a deliberately aesthetic type and was very elegantly dressed. His manner and his conversation had the flamboyance of the romantic thirties. He talked in flowing periods with an air of finality, and what he said was no less just than obvious. The gay little lady who shared his fortunes listened to his wisdom with an admiration that plainly flattered him.