besought her not to yield; except for our encouragement she would have gone back to him; and he beats her.”
Marie appeared again, with no signs now that so short awhile ago romance had played at game with her, and brought the dishes that had been ordered. Susie seized once more upon Arthur Burdon’s attention.
“Now please look at the man who is sitting next to Mr. Warren.”
Arthur saw a tall, dark fellow with strongly-marked features, untidy hair, and a ragged black moustache.
“That is Mr. O’Brien, who is an example of the fact that strength of will and an earnest purpose cannot make a painter. He’s a failure and he knows it, and the bitterness has warped his soul. If you listen to him you’ll hear every painter of eminence come under his lash. He can forgive nobody who’s successful, and he never acknowledges merit in anyone till he’s safely dead and buried.”
“He must be a cheerful companion,” answered Arthur. “And who is the stout old lady by his side, with the flaunting hat?”
“That is the mother of Madame Rouge, the little pale-faced woman sitting next to her. She is the mistress of Rouge, who does all the illustrations for La Semaine. At first it rather tickled me that the old lady should call him mon gendre, my son-in-law, and take the irregular union of her daughter with such a noble unconcern for propriety; but now it seems quite natural.”
