The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. 🔊
"You don't remember me," he said in a toneless voice. 🔊
Rothenstein brightly focused him. 🔊
"Yes, I do," he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion—pride in a retentive memory. 🔊 "Edwin Soames." 🔊
"Enoch Soames," repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. 🔊 "We met in Paris a few times when you were living there. 🔊 We met at the Cafe Groche." 🔊
"And I came to your studio once." 🔊
"Oh, yes; I was sorry I was out." 🔊
"But you were in. 🔊 You showed me some of your paintings, you know. 🔊 I hear you're in Chelsea now." 🔊
"Yes." 🔊
I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass along. 🔊 He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. 🔊 A sad figure, his. 🔊 It occurred to me that "hungry" was perhaps the mot juste for him; but—hungry for what? 🔊 He looked as if he had little appetite for anything. 🔊 I was sorry for him; and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit down and have something to drink. 🔊