But he essayed it—­essayed to give Marsden a resume of his career.  He told him of the stroke of sheer luck that had been the foundation of it all, the falling ill of another painter who had turned over certain commissions to him.  He told him of his poor but happy marriage, and of the windfall, not large, but timely, that had come to his wife.  He told him of fortunate acquaintanceships happily cultivated, of his first important commission, of the fresco that had procured for him his Associateship, of his sale to the Chantrey, and of his quietly remunerative Visitorships and his work on Boards and Committees.

And as he talked, Marsden drew his empty glass to him, moistened his finger with a little spilt liquid, and began to run the finger round the rim of the glass.  They had done that formerly, a whole roomful of them, producing, when each had found the note of his instrument, a high, thin, intolerable singing.  To this singing Romarin strove to tell his tale.

But that thin and bat-like note silenced him.  He ended lamely, with some empty generalisation on success.

“Ah, but success in what?” Marsden demanded, interrupting his playing on the glass for a moment.

“In your aim, whatever it may be.”

“Ah!” said Marsden, resuming his performance.

Romarin had sought in his recital to minimise differences in circumstances; but Marsden seemed bent on aggravating them.  He had the miserable advantage of the man who has nothing to lose.  And bit by bit, Romarin had begun to realise that he was going considerably more than halfway to meet this old enemy of his, and that amity seemed as far on as ever.  In his heart he began to feel the foreknowledge that their meeting could have no conclusion.  He hated the man, the look of his face and the sound of his voice, as much as ever.

The proprietor approached with profoundest apology in his attitude.  M’sieu would pardon him, but the noise of the glass ... it was annoying ... another M’sieu had made complaint....

“Eh?...” cried Marsden.  “Oh, that!  Certainly!  It can be put to a much better purpose.”

He refilled the glass.

The liquor had begun to tell on him.  A quarter of the quantity would have made a clean-living man incapably drunk, but it had only made Marsden’s eyes bright.  He gave a sarcastic laugh.

“And is that all?” he asked.

Romarin replied shortly that that was all.

“You’ve missed out the R.A., and the D.C.L.”

“Then let me add that I’m a Doctor of Civil Law and a full Member of the Royal Academy,” said Romarin, almost at the end of his patience.  “And now, since you don’t think much of it, may I hear your own account?”

“Oh, by all means.  I don’t know, however, that—­” he broke off to throw a glance at a woman who had just entered the restaurant—­a divesting glance that caused Romarin to redden to his crown and drop his eyes.  “I was going to say that you may think as little of my history as I do of yours.  Supple woman that; when the rather scraggy blonde does take it into her head to be a devil she’s the worst kind there is....”