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 grey 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. `You don't
remember me,' he said in a toneless voice.

Rothenstein brightly focussed 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 two or
three 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.'