Marsden inquired, picking up a chicken bone. "Highly unphilosophic," said Romarin, shaking his head. "Hm!" grunted Marsden, stripping the bone... "Well, I grant it pays in a
different way." "It does pay, then?" Romarin asked. "Oh yes, it pays." The restaurant had filled up. It was one frequented by young artists,
musicians, journalists and the clingers to the rather frayed fringes of
the Arts. From time to time heads were turned to look at Romarin's portly
and handsome figure, which the Press, the Regent Street photographic
establishments, and the Academy Supplements had made well known. The
plump young Frenchwoman within the glazed cash office near the door,
at whom Marsden had several times glanced in a way at which Romarin had
frowned, was aware of the honour done the restaurant; and several times
the blond-bearded proprietor had advanced and inquired with concern
whether the dinner and the service was to the liking of M'sieu. And the eyes that were turned to Romarin plainly wondered who the
scallawag dining with him might be. Since Romarin had chosen that their conversation should be of the old
days, and without picking and choosing, Marsden was quite willing that
it should be so. Again he was casting the bullets of bread into his
mouth, and again Romarin was conscious of irritation. Marsden, too,
noticed it; but in awaiting the _rôti_ he still continued to roll and
bolt the pellets, washing them down with gulps of whiskey and soda. "Oh yes, it paid," he resumed. "Not in that way, of course--" he
indicated the head, quickly turned away again, of an aureoled youngster
with a large bunch of black satin tie, "--not in admiration of that
sort, but in other ways--"

"Tell me about it." "Certainly, if you want it. But you're my host. Won't you let me hear
your side of it all first?" "But I thought you said you knew that--had followed my career?" "So I have. It's not your list of honours and degrees; let me see, what
are you? R.A., D.C.L., Doctor of Literature, whatever that means, and
Professor of this, that, and the other, and not at the end of it yet. I
know all that. I don't say you haven't earned it; I admire your painting;
but it's not that. I want to know what it _feels_ like to be up there
where you are." It was a childish question, and Romarin felt foolish in trying to answer
it. Such things were the things the adoring aureoled youngster a table or
two away would have liked to ask. Romarin recognised in Marsden the old
craving for sensation; it was part of the theoretical creed Marsden had
made for himself, of doing things, not for their own sakes, but in order
that he might have done them. Of course, it had appeared to a fellow like
that, that Romarin himself had always had a calculated end in view; he
had not; Marsden merely measured Romarin's peck out of his own bushel. It
had been Marsden who, in self-consciously seeking his own life, had lost
it, and Romarin was more than a little inclined to suspect that the
vehemence with which he protested that he had not lost it was precisely
the measure of the loss. But he essayed it--essayed to give Marsden a _résumé_ 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...."

Without apology Romarin looked at his watch. "All right," said Marsden, smiling, "for what _I've_ got out of life,
then. But I warn you, it's entirely discreditable." Romarin did not doubt it. "But it's mine, and I boast of it. I've done--barring receiving honours
and degrees--everything--everything! If there's anything I haven't done,
tell me and lend me a sovereign, and I'll go and do it." "You haven't told the story." "That's so. Here goes then ... Well, you know, unless you've forgotten,
how I began...."

Fruit and nutshells and nutcrackers lay on the table between them, and at
the end of it, shielded from draughts by the menu cards, the coffee
apparatus simmered over its elusive blue flame. Romarin was taking the
rind from a pear with a table-knife, and Marsden had declined port in
favour of a small golden liqueur of brandy.