BACK TO PARIS AND CELEBRITIES and espadrilles. He would suddenly appear late at night at the Parnasse to fetch his master home. One suddenly turned round on the terrasse and saw him standing like a statue. I asked him if he would come and sit for me and one afternoon I heard a knock on the door. The staircase was very long and, as a rule, one could hear people pounding and groaning up the staircase. He sat without moving. He was quite terrifying, as, like Landru, he never blinked his eyelids. I became almost hypnotized and had to ask him to rest about every quarter of an hour. I did a good painting of him, which was eventually accepted by the Salon d'Automne. I sold it the other day to Miss Ruth Baldwin, and it now hangs near the cocktail bar in her house in Chel- sea. If one paints a good picture it is a little sad to think that one will never see it again. I am not actually speaking of that one, but some of mine have gone to America and Africa and some have been bought by people that I do not even know. I think writers are so much luckier than painters. In the first place it costs them nothing to write. To paint costs money. If one paints a good picture, even a very good one, it may have a success at an exhibition and be sold, and it is never heard of again until one is dead, or, perhaps not even then. If a writer writes a book its reputation, if it is a good one, goes on for years and the writer continues to get money for it. An extraordinary man came daily to the Gafe Parnasse. He was very tall and frequently wore a top-hat, a tail coat, and white spats, and carried " ' ' '