s.'

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.'

'Oh yes, of course. But did you explain--for instance--that there was no
such thing as bad or good grammar?'

'N-no,' said Soames. 'Of course in Art there is the good and the evil.
But in Life--no.' He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak white hands,
not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained by nicotine. 'In Life
there are illusions of good and evil, but'--his voice trailed away to a
murmur in which the words 'vieux jeu' and 'rococo' were faintly audible.
I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that
Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his
throat and said 'Parlons d'autre chose.'

It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young, and
had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was
quite five or six years older than either of us. Also, he had written a
book.

It was wonderful to have written a book.

If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as
it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when
he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what
kind of book it was to be.

'My poems,' he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title
of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather
thought of giving the book no title at all. 'If a book is good in
itself--' he murmured,