“You don’t see they’re making fun of you?”
“Who?”
“Why, Caracal’s set—Socrate among the rest,” Suzanne answered.
“I don’t believe it,” Phil said. “Socrate is an enthusiast, but he’s a real artist!”
“Penses-tu, bébé!” Suzanne murmured to herself. Then, passing before the glass, with a twist of her finger she put a lock of hair in place and went out.
Phil seldom had such visits. For the most part of the time he was alone in front of his picture which did not go. There was no end to his fumbling efforts. There were always parts to be done over—and he never succeeded in doing them right.
Socrate arrived one fine evening with his hands in his pockets.
“I’m coming to live with you!” he said. “Landlords are idiots, on my word! Talent and thought never count with them. It’s dough they want. If it weren’t for you I’d have to sleep out of doors!”
He sat down on a chair and added: “You’re willing?”
“Certainly,” Phil said, as he drew a mattress near the stove. “You can sleep there for the present. We’ll see later on.”