you'll hear every painter of eminence come under his lash. He can forgive
nobody who's successful, and he never acknowledges merit in anyone till
he's safely dead and buried.'

'He must be a cheerful companion,' answered Arthur. 'And who is the stout
old lady by his side, with the flaunting hat?'

'That is the mother of Madame Rouge, the little palefaced woman sitting
next to her. She is the mistress of Rouge, who does all the illustrations
for _La Semaine_. At first it rather tickled me that the old lady should
call him _mon gendre_, my son-in-law, and take the irregular union of her
daughter with such a noble unconcern for propriety; but now it seems
quite natural.'

The mother of Madame Rouge had the remains of beauty, and she sat bolt
upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified gesture. Arthur
looked away quickly, for, catching his eye, she gave him an amorous
glance. Rouge had more the appearance of a prosperous tradesman than of
an artist; but he carried on with O'Brien, whose French was perfect, an
argument on the merits of Cézanne. To one he was a great master and to
the other an impudent charlatan. Each hotly repeated his opinion, as
though the mere fact of saying the same thing several times made it more
convincing.

'Next to me is Madame Meyer,' proceeded Susie. 'She was a governess in
Poland, but she was much too pretty to remain one, and now she lives with
the landscape painter who is by her side.'

Arthur's eyes followed her words and rested on a cleanshaven man with a
large quantity of grey, curling hair. He had a handsome face of a