There, on that October evening—there, in that exuberant vista of gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled on marble tables, I drew a deep breath and, "This indeed," said I to myself, "is life!" 🔊 (Forgive me that theory. Remember the waging of even the South African War was not yet.) 🔊

It was the hour before dinner. 🔊 We drank vermuth. 🔊 Those who knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. 🔊 Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of vacant tables or of tables occupied by friends. 🔊 One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch Rothenstein's eye. 🔊 He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. 🔊 He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. 🔊 He had a thin, vague beard, or, rather, he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. 🔊 He was an odd-looking person; but in the nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. 🔊 The young writers of that era—and I was sure this man was a writer—strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. 🔊 This man had striven unsuccessfully. 🔊 He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind, but of Bohemian intention, and a gray waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. 🔊 I decided that "dim" was the mot juste for him. 🔊 I had already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the period. 🔊