For a time there was silence, Pierre and Mimi busying themselves in putting the studio to rights, with an instinctive courtesy which took no notice of their visitor's snorts and wheezes; and Caffiard taking note of his surroundings with his round, blinking eyes. Opposite him, against the wall, reposed the portrait of the restaurateur's wife, as dry and pasty as a stale cream cheese upon the point of crumbling, and on an easel was another--that of Monsieur Pantin, the rich shirt-maker of the boulevard St. Germain--on which Pierre was at work. A veritable atrocity this, with a green background which trespassed upon Monsieur Pantin's hair, and a featureless face, gaunt and haggard with yellow and purple undertones. There was nothing in either picture to refute one's natural suspicion that soap had been the medium employed. Caffiard blinked harder still as his eyes rested upon the portraits, and he secretly consulted the crumpled wine-card in his hand. Then he seemed to recover his breath by means of a profound sigh. "Monsieur makes caricatures?" he inquired. "Ah, monsieur," said Pierre, "at times, and for amusement only. I am a portraitist." And he pointed proudly to the picture against the wall. For they are all alike, these painters--proudest of what they do least well! "Ah! Then," said Caffiard, with an air of resignation, "I must ask monsieur's pardon, and descend. I am not interested in portraits. When it comes to caricatures"-- "They are well enough in their way," put in Pierre, "but as a serious affair--to sell, for instance--well, monsieur comprehends that one does not debauch one's art!" Oh, yes, they are all alike, these painters! "What is serious, what is not serious?" answered Caffiard. "It is all a matter of opinion. One prefers to have his painting glued to the wall of the Salon, next the ceiling, another to have his drawing on the front page of La Blague." "Oh, naturally La Blague," protested Pierre. "I am its editor," said Caffiard superbly. "_Eigh!_" exclaimed Pierre. For Mimi had cruelly pinched his arm. Before the sting had passed, she was seated at Caffiard's side, tugging at the strings of a great portfolio. "Are they imbeciles, these painters, monsieur?" she was saying. "Now you shall see. This great baby is marvelous, but _marvelous_, with his caricatures. Not Léandre himself--it is I who assure you, monsieur!--and to hear him, one would think--but thou _tirest_ me, Pierrot!--With his portraits! No, it is _too_ much!" She spread the portfolio wide, and began to shuffle through the drawings it contained.