At Siron's Mark's friends predicted success, a place on the line, honourable mention, a prize, possibly. Saphir saw it and whistled.
"You painted that—you?"
They were standing in the dining-room, panelled with studies, some of them signed by famous men. Mark's friends were all present, and in the background Madame Siron smiled genially, murmuring that monsieur certainly must add a tiny sketch to her little collection. Mark glanced from face to face. The general expression was not to be misinterpreted. In the eyes of those present he had "arrived."
"Tiens!" said Saphir; "it is not signed. You must sign it, mon garçon."
A bystander produced a brush and palette.
"It grows upon one," said Saphir, shading his eyes. "He has lots to learn in technique, but the feeling which cannot be imparted is there. Saperlipopette! It brings tears to the eyes. And look you," he addressed Pynsent and Mark in broken English, "I am not easily moved—I! When I lose a friend of ze blood—how do you call it?—a relation, yes, ze tears do not come—no! And when I hear Wagner—zoum, soum, zoum—ze tears do not come, no! But when I hear Rossini, Bellini—rivers, mes amis, rivers!" With a large gesture he indicated a tropical downpour; then he continued: "It is ze melodie. Is it not so, mes enfants?"
He appealed to the circle around him. Mark listened, stupefied, to a clamour of congratulation.
"Sign it—sign it!" they cried.
Mark took the brush with a queer smile upon his wide mouth. The others fell back to give him room.
"Dieu de Dieu!" ejaculated Saphir.