The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. `You don't remember me,' he said in a toneless voice.
Rothenstein brightly focussed him. `Yes, I do,' he replied after a moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. `Edwin Soames.'
`Enoch Soames,' said Enoch.
`Enoch Soames,' repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough to have hit on the surname. `We met in Paris two or three times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche.'
`And I came to your studio once.'
`Oh yes; I was sorry I was out.'
`But you were in. You showed me some of