ordered a bottle of white wine.'

The rest of the party took up his complaint, and all besought her not to
show too hard a heart to the bald and rubicund painter.

'_Mais si, je vous aime, Monsieur Warren,_' she cried, laughing, '_Je
vous aime tous, tous._'

She ran downstairs, amid the shouts of men and women, to give her orders.

'The other day the Chien Noir was the scene of a tragedy,' said Susie.
'Marie broke off relations with her lover, who is a waiter at Lavenue's,
and would have no reconciliation. He waited till he had a free evening,
and then came to the room downstairs and ordered dinner. Of course, she
was obliged to wait on him, and as she brought him each dish he
expostulated with her, and they mingled their tears.'

'She wept in floods,' interrupted a youth with neatly brushed hair and
fat nose. 'She wept all over our food, and we ate it salt with tears. We
besought her not to yield; except for our encouragement she would have
gone back to him; and he beats her.'

Marie appeared again, with no signs now that so short a while ago romance
had played a game with her, and brought the dishes that had been ordered.
Susie seized once more upon Arthur Burdon's attention.

'Now please look at the man who is sitting next to Mr Warren.'

Arthur saw a tall, dark fellow with strongly-marked features, untidy
hair, and a ragged black moustache.

'That is Mr O'Brien, who is an example of the fact that strength of will
and an earnest purpose cannot make a painter. He's a failure, and he
knows it, and the bitterness has warped his soul. If you listen to him,
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