For days he had hardly left his studio, and it was only with the greatest effort that he could bring himself to join Logan at the Paris Café. He felt weak, and the streets looked very strange, clear and bright, as they do to a convalescent. As he entered the café it seemed years since he had been there, ages since he had sat there trembling with excitement as he waited for the great Calthrop to come in. He remembered that excitement so vividly that something like it came rushing up in him, and he clutched at it for relief. . . . Calthrop was there with his little court of models and students. Mendel found himself laughing nervously as he stood and waited for the great man to recognize him. Calthrop looked up and nodded to him. He was wildly, absurdly delighted. He rushed over to Logan and Oliver and shook them enthusiastically by the hand.
“Isn’t it a splendid place?” he cried.
“Have something to drink,” said Logan. “You’ve been overworking.”
“You must say it’s a splendid place,” insisted Mendel, “or I shall go home. Just by that table where Calthrop is sitting is where I was arrested.”
“Oh, which is Calthrop?” asked Oliver eagerly.
“The big man over there,” said Mendel. “I was arrested just there, and I had to go on my knees to the manager to make him allow me to come here again. I had to apologize to him. At the time it was the greatest tragedy of my life.”
He had forgotten his dislike for Oliver in his elation at finding himself gay again, and he chattered on of the days when the café had seemed to him a heaven full of heroes. Oliver listened to him like a child. She loved stories, and she leaned forward and drank in his words, and she appeared to him as a very beautiful woman, desirable, intoxicating. Yet because Logan was his friend he would not envy him, but rejoiced in his possession of this rare treasure, a woman who could deliver up to him all the warm secrets of life. And he could not help saying so, and telling them how happy it made him to be with them.
Logan and Oliver glanced at each other, and their hands met in a fierce grip under the table. Mendel could not see more than their glance, but the meeting of their eyes sent a flame like a white-hot sword darting at his heart. The sharp pain released him, and sent him shooting up into a wilder gaiety.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning with a start, he saw Mr. Sivwright, his first master, standing above him. He rose and shook hands.
“I am glad to see you,” said Mr. Sivwright. “I’ve been meaning to write to you, but I’ve been away, out of London.”