Remember the waging of even
the South African War was not yet.)
It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermuth. Those who
knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by
name. Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and
wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables
occupied by friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was
sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our
table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a
disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a
stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and
brownish hair. He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on
which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its
retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd
apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young
writers of that era--and I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly
to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a
soft black hat of clerical kind, but of Bohemian intention, and a gray
waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be
romantic. I decided that "dim" was the mot juste for him. I had
already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot
juste , that Holy Grail of the period.
The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time
he made up his mind to pause in front of it.
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