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"Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French.
The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière.
"Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued.
Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin."
And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led
into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair
of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author
of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in
his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his
desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript.
The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in
fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of
work.
Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of
some South
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