On an easel stood the picture which Logan had described to Tysoe, a London street scene with a group of people gazing into a shop window. It was a clever piece of work, very adroit in the handling of the paint and pleasing in colour, but Mendel had an odd uncomfortable feeling of having seen it before, and yet he knew that the technique was novel. Yet it was precisely the technique that seemed familiar. Certain liberties had been taken with the perspective which, though they were new to him, did not surprise him.
Logan came in dressed and said that Oliver would not be a minute. She appeared in a dressing-gown.
“Well?” she said; “none the worse for last night?”
“No, thanks,” said Mendel. “Why should I be? I enjoyed it.”
“Did Logan tell you we were going to Paris?”
“No. He said nothing about it.”
“I’m dying to go to Paris. He says they understand the kind of thing we had last night in Paris.”
“You’re not going for good, are you?” asked Mendel.
“No. Just a trip. I want you to come too. We’ll see some pictures and have a good time. I can’t speak a word of French, but they say English is good enough anywhere.”
“Yes, I’d like to go,” said Mendel. “I want a change, before I settle down to working for the exhibition. Is that picture going to be in it?”