retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd
apparitions were more frequent, I think, than 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 gray
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 focused 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 a few 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."