"You don't remember me," he said in a toneless voice.
Rothenstein brightly focused him.
"Yes, I do," he replied after a moment, with pride rather than
effusion--pride in a retentive memory. "Edwin Soames."
"Enoch Soames," said Enoch.
"Enoch Soames," repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it
was enough to have hit on the surname. "We met in Paris a few times
when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche."
"And I came to your studio once."
"Oh, yes; I was sorry I was out."
"But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you
know. I hear you're in Chelsea now."
"Yes."
I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable,
pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal,
rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to
me that "hungry" was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry
for what? He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry
for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did
ask him to sit down and have something to drink.
Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his
cape with a gesture which, had not those wings been waterproof, might
have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an
absinthe. "Je me tiens toujours fidele," he told
Rothenstein, "a la sorciere glauque."
"It is bad for you," said Rothenstein, dryly.
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