`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.

`Nothing is bad for one,' answered Soames. `Dans ce monde il
n'y a ni de bien ni de mal.'

`Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?'

`I explained it all in the preface to "Negations."'

`"Negations"?'

`Yes; I gave you a copy of it.'