evals; the Monday morning throng of
models in all stages of non-attire crowding the staircases; the noisy
cafe over the way; the Restaurant Didier where those of us, young men
and maidens, who had princely incomes dined marvellously for one franc
fifty, _vin compris_--such wine!--I writhe sympathetically at its
memory; the squabbles, the new romances, the new slang on the tip of
everyone's tongue; the studio in Menilmontant where the four of us
slaved at never-to-be-purchased masterpieces; the dear, full-blooded,
inspiring life again. Paris, too, which meant the Rue des Saladiers and
Blanquette and Narcisse, and the grace of dear familiar things.

It must not be counted to me for ingratitude that I was glad to be back.
I was still a boy, under twenty. My pockets bulged with the bank notes
into which I had converted Mrs. Rushworth's cheque, and I found myself
master of infinite delight. I presented Blanquette with a tortoise-shell
comb and Narcisse with a collar, and I electrified my intimate and less
fortunate friends by giving them a dinner in the dismal entresol at
Didier's which was superbly styled the "_Salle des Banquets_." Fanchette
and one or two of her colleagues being of the party, I fear we behaved
in a disreputable manner. If Melford had looked on it would have blushed
to the top of its decorated spire. We put the table aside and danced
eccentric quadrilles. We shouted roystering songs. When Cazalet tried
to sing a solo we held him down and gagged him with his own sandals. We
flirted in corners. A goodly portion of Rosaria, a Spanish model born
and bred in the Quartier Saint-Antoine, we washed in red wine. It was a
memorable evening. The next day Blanquette listened with great interest
to my expurgated account of the proceedings, and in her good unhumorous
way prescribed for my headache. When one is young, such a night is worth
a headache. I am unrepentant, even though I am old and the almond tree
flourishes and the grasshopper is trying to be a nuisance. I don't like
your oldsters who pretend to be ashamed of the follies of their youth.
They are humbugs all. There is no respectable elderly gentleman in the
land who does not inwardly chuckle over the chimes he has heard at
midnight.

Though I always had Joanna's gracious personality at the back of my
mind, and the love of my good master as part of my spiritual equipment,
yet I must confess to concerning my thoughts very little with the
progress of their roma