Saturday, 14 June 1879

I drew this week, and it was thought not good enough for me.
A fair number of people: Monsieur Randouin — Madame is unwell — and Monsieur Obidine, a Russian whose acquaintance we made at Nice. A gentleman who says he would have done anything in the world to be introduced to me had he not been already, after what the Greek Despotopoulo told him about me — you know, the old fellow I talked with on the way to Monaco this winter, who finds my knowledge of politics, of reading, of everything, prodigious. I must say he is rather stupid.