The Chien Noir, where Susie Boyd and Margaret generally dined, was the most charming restaurant in the quarter.  Downstairs was a public room, where all and sundry devoured their food, for the little place had a reputation for good cooking combined with cheapness; and the patron, a retired horse-dealer who had taken to victualling in order to build up a business for his son, was a cheery soul whose loud-voiced friendliness attracted custom.  But on the first floor was a narrow room, with three tables arranged in a horse-shoe, which was reserved for a small party of English or American painters and a few Frenchmen with their wives.  At least, they were so nearly wives, and their manner had such a matrimonial respectability, that Susie, when first she and Margaret were introduced into this society, judged it would be vulgar to turn up her nose.  She held that it was prudish to insist upon the conventions of Notting Hill in the Boulevard de Montparnasse.  The young women who had thrown in their lives with these painters were modest in demeanour and quiet in dress.  They were model housewives, who had preserved their self-respect notwithstanding a difficult position, and did not look upon their relation with less seriousness because they had not muttered a few words before Monsieur le Maire.

The room was full when Arthur Burdon entered, but Margaret had kept him an empty seat between herself and Miss Boyd.  Everyone was speaking at once, in French, at the top of his voice, and a furious argument was proceeding on the merit of the later Impressionists.  Arthur sat down, and was hurriedly introduced to a lanky youth, who sat on the other side of Margaret.  He was very tall, very thin, very fair.  He wore a very high collar and very long hair, and held himself like an exhausted lily.

’He always reminds me of an Aubrey Beardsley that’s been dreadfully smudged,’ said Susie in an undertone.  ’He’s a nice, kind creature, but his name is Jagson.  He has virtue and industry.  I haven’t seen any of his work, but he has absolutely no talent.’

‘How do you know, if you’ve not seen his pictures?’ asked Arthur.

‘Oh, it’s one of our conventions here that nobody has talent,’ laughed Susie.  ’We suffer one another personally, but we have no illusions about the value of our neighbour’s work.’

‘Tell me who everyone is.’

‘Well, look at that little bald man in the corner.  That is Warren.’

Arthur looked at the man she pointed out.  He was a small person, with a pate as shining as a billiard-ball, and a pointed beard.  He had protruding, brilliant eyes.

‘Hasn’t he had too much to drink?’ asked Arthur frigidly.