'How do you know, if you've not seen his pictures?' asked Arthur.

'Oh, it's one of our conventions here that nobody has talent,' laughed
Susie. 'We suffer one another personally, but we have no illusions about
the value of our neighbour's work.'

'Tell me who everyone is.'

'Well, look at that little bald man in the corner. That is Warren.'

Arthur looked at the man she pointed out. He was a small person, with
a pate as shining as a billiard-ball, and a pointed beard. He had
protruding, brilliant eyes.

'Hasn't he had too much to drink?' asked Arthur frigidly.

'Much,' answered Susie promptly, 'but he's always in that condition, and
the further he gets from sobriety the more charming he is. He's the only
man in this room of whom you'll never hear a word of evil. The strange
thing is that he's very nearly a great painter. He has the most
fascinating sense of colour in the world, and the more intoxicated he is,
the more delicate and beautiful is his painting. Sometimes, after more
than the usual number of _apéritifs_, he will sit down in a café to do a
sketch, with his hand so shaky that he can hardly hold a brush; he has to
wait for a favourable moment, and then he makes a jab at the panel. And
the immoral thing is that each of these little jabs is lovely. He's the
most delightful interpreter of Paris I know, and when you've seen his
sketches--he's done hundreds, of unimaginable grace and feeling and
distinction--you can never see Paris in the same way again.'