'Ay--Bouguereau. Isn't his front name William?' And Chalks, speaking
as it were _ex cathedrâ_, made very short work indeed of Monsieur
Bouguereau's claims to rank as a painter. Blake listened with
open-eyed wonder. But we are difficult critics, we of the Paris art
schools, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five; cold, cynical,
suspicious as any Old Bailey judge; and rare is the man whose work can
sustain our notice, and get off with lighter censure than '_croûte_'
or '_plat d'épinards_.' We grow more lenient, however, as we advance
in years. Already, at thirty, we begin to detect signs of promise in
other canvases than our own. At forty, conceivably, we shall even
admit a certain degree of actual merit.

By and by, Chalks having concluded his pronouncement, and drifted to
another corner of the room, Blake and I fell into separate talk.

'I must count it a piece of exceptional good fortune,' he informed me,
'to have made the acquaintance of your little _coterie_ this evening.
I am on the point of writing a novel, in which it will be necessary
that my hero should pass several years as a student in the Latin
Quarter; and I have run over from London for the especial purpose of
collecting local colour. No doubt you will be able to help me with a
hint or two as to the best mode of setting about it.'

'I can think of none better than to come here and live for a while,'
said I.

'I only arrived last night, and I put up at the Grand Hotel. But it
was quite my intention to move across the river directly I could find
suitable lodgings. Do you know of any that you could recommend?'