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what one wanted to do next, and that is rare in any
human being.   He still had his Saturday afternoons.
The studio was large and badly lighted after the
daylight  had  gone, and he loved shocking  the
guests, who consisted of all kinds of people, from
the very grand to the  humble, but  serious, art
student.   He had a life-sized lay figure and an iron
bedstead in one corner, with a pink counterpane;
he said it always reminded him of the " Gamden
Town Murder.35   One day he placed the lay figure
on the bed in a rather compromising position, sat
next it with his arm round its neck, and waited for
the guests.   They all looked rather startled when
they saw this unusual group.    I  took Beverley
Nichols there one day.   He was seventeen and in the
London Scottish.   He was very good-looking and
charming and played the piano marvellously; he
was a great success at the Saturday afternoons.
Later on I think I quarrelled with him.   I forget
why.   I have always regretted it as I admired his
work very much.
My friend, Marie Beerbohm, came often to Fitz-
roy Street. We all went in the evenings to the
Eiffel Tower Restaurant and ate and drank after-
wards. One morning Marie came to see me. She
said, " An awful thing has happened; I was bring-
ing with me half a bottle of champagne to cheer us
up. I met Walter Sickert in the street. He saw il
and said, c Disgraceful that young girls like you
should drink in the morning,3 and he took it awa^
from me." The next morning I saw it in the wine-
bin, when I was having breakfast with him. 11
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