had suffered a good deal, and it made him feel a brute;
but she had probably got over the suffering by now,
at all events the worst of it. It suggested itself
to him that women were often very emphatic in their
expressions. These did not mean so much as when
men used them. He had quite made up his mind
that nothing would induce him ever to see her again.
He had not written for so long that it seemed hardly
worth while to write now. He made up his mind
not to read the letter.
“I daresay she won’t write again,”
he said to himself. “She can’t help
seeing the thing’s over. After all, she
was old enough to be my mother; she ought to have
known better.”
For an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable.
His attitude was obviously the right one, but he could
not help a feeling of dissatisfaction with the whole
business. Miss Wilkinson, however, did not write
again; nor did she, as he absurdly feared, suddenly
appear in Paris to make him ridiculous before his
friends. In a little while he clean forgot her.
Meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods.
The amazement with which at first he had looked upon
the works of the impressionists, changed to admiration;
and presently he found himself talking as emphatically
as the rest on the merits of Manet, Monet, and Degas.
He bought a photograph of a drawing by Ingres of the
Odalisque and a photograph of the Olympia. They
were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so
that he could contemplate their beauty while he shaved.
He knew now quite positively that there had been no
painting of landscape before Monet; and he felt a
real thrill when he stood in front of Rembrandt’s
Disciples at Emmaus or Velasquez’ Lady with
the Flea-bitten Nose. That was not her real name,
but by that she was distinguished at Gravier’s
to emphasise the picture’s beauty notwithstanding
the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the sitter’s
appearance. With Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and Watts,
he had put aside his bowler hat and the neat blue
tie with white spots which he had worn on coming to
Paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed
hat, a flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic
cut. He walked along the Boulevard du Montparnasse
as though he had known it all his life, and by virtuous
perseverance he had learnt to drink absinthe without
distaste. He was letting his hair grow, and it
was only because Nature is unkind and has no regard
for the immortal longings of youth that he did not
attempt a beard.
Philip soon realised that the spirit which informed
his friends was Cronshaw’s. It was from
him that Lawson got his paradoxes; and even Clutton,
who strained after individuality, expressed himself
in the terms he had insensibly acquired from the older
man. It was his ideas that they bandied about
at table, and on his authority they formed their judgments.
They made up for the respect with which unconsciously
they treated him by laughing at his foibles and lamenting
his vices.
