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of litter. My friend in Paris had warned me that he was almost senile, but I was not prepared for this, and it occurred to me to ask myself what business I had there! Before me was the remnant of a man. The women moved his chair about and revealed him, holding him securely by the shoulders to prevent his collapse. His crossed legs never lost their terrible rigidity. He seemed to be all acute angles and of a solid piece, like a heavily armoured knight, unhorsed in combat. He rested on one foot, the other was swathed in bandages. The attendants settled him in his chair to prevent him from toppling forward.

Seated before me, he was a fearsome spectacle. With elbows pressed against his body and forearms raised, he moved two forbidding stumps of hands, bound with cords and narrow tapes; the fingers were almost shorn of flesh and their bones seemed to protrude through the thin integument. His poor hands, withered like claws.

But I had not yet seen his head, which was sunk into his bent shoulders like that of a hunchback. He wore a large English travelling cap, beneath which his face showed pale and hollow-cheeked. His beard was bristly and white and flattened to one side, like gorse laid low by the wind. How had it taken that crease, I wondered? And then I was conscious of his eyes, and a doubt seized me. Did he still possess a spark of the vital thing?

My thought was soon to be answered, for, since it was necessary to break the silence, I risked sayihg: "As an admirer of your work I have come to pay homage to its creator—I greet you, Master."

He motioned me to come nearer and signalled the servant to give him a cigarette, which she put into his mouth and lighted.

Then Renoir said, "I have all the vices like that of painting."

I breathed freely again. That sally, uttered with a clearness and vibrancy of tone, reassured me. I laughed and the Master smiled at me. His indistinct eyes suddenly became animated.

"I noticed over in the corner some ceramics wherein I recognize your hand."

He caught the note of inquiry in my remark.

"Yes," he replied, that was my first medium. I am now teaching the art to my god-son, a lad of sixteen who lives with me. It is necessary that every one have a métier and this seems to be agreeable to him. It is very difficult, however, since the same colour applied by different hands will create a conflict of tones."