One day I raised my eyes, and saw there was a new-comer in the studio; and, to my surprise, for he was fashionably dressed, and my experience had not led me to believe in the marriage of genius and well-cut cloth, he was painting very well indeed.  His shoulders were beautiful and broad; a long neck, a tiny head, a narrow, thin face, and large eyes, full of intelligence and fascination.  And although he could not have been working more than an hour, he had already sketched in his figure, and with all the surroundings—­screens, lamps, stoves, etc.  I was deeply interested.  I asked the young lady next me if she knew who he was.  She could give me no information.  But at four o’clock there was a general exodus from the studio, and we adjourned to a neighbouring cafe to drink beer.  The way led through a narrow passage, and as we stooped under an archway, the young man (Marshall was his name) spoke to me in English.  Yes, we had met before; we had exchanged a few words in So-and-So’s studio—­the great blonde man, whose Dore-like improvisations had awakened aspiration in me.

The usual reflections on the chances of life were of course made, and then followed the inevitable “Will you dine with me to-night?” Marshall thought the following day would suit him better, but I was very pressing.  He offered to meet me at my hotel; or would I come with him to his rooms, and he would show me some pictures—­some trifles he had brought up from the country?  Nothing would please me better.  We got into a cab.  Then every moment revealed new qualities, new superiorities, in my new-found friend.  Not only was he tall, strong, handsome, and beautifully dressed, infinitely better dressed than I, but he could talk French like a native.  It was only natural that he should, for he was born and had lived in Brussels all his life, but the accident of birth rather stimulated than calmed my erubescent admiration.  He spoke of, and he was clearly on familiar terms with, the fashionable restaurants and actresses; he stopped at a hairdresser’s to have his hair curled.  All this was very exciting, and a little bewildering.  I was on the tiptoe of expectation to see his apartments; and, not to be utterly outdone, I alluded to my valet.

His apartments were not so grand as I expected; but when he explained that he had just spent ten thousand pounds in two years, and was now living on six or seven hundred francs a month, which his mother would allow him until he had painted and had sold a certain series of pictures, which he contemplated beginning at once, my admiration increased to wonder, and I examined with awe the great fireplace which had been constructed at his orders, and admired the iron pot which hung by a chain above an artificial bivouac fire.  This detail will suggest the rest of the studio—­the Turkey carpet, the brass harem lamps, the Japanese screen, the pieces of drapery, the oak chairs covered with red Utrecht velvet, the oak wardrobe that had been picked up somewhere,—­a ridiculous bargain, and the inevitable bed with spiral columns.  There were vases filled with foreign grasses, and palms stood in the corners of the rooms.  Marshall pulled out a few pictures; but he paid very little heed to my compliments; and, sitting down at the piano, with a great deal of splashing and dashing about the keys, he rattled off a waltz.