They made room.  The dinner was frugal, a plate of soup, a dish of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a bottle of wine; but Philip paid no attention to what he ate.  He took note of the men at the table.  Flanagan was there again:  he was an American, a short, snub-nosed youth with a jolly face and a laughing mouth.  He wore a Norfolk jacket of bold pattern, a blue stock round his neck, and a tweed cap of fantastic shape.  At that time impressionism reigned in the Latin Quarter, but its victory over the older schools was still recent; and Carolus-Duran, Bouguereau, and their like were set up against Manet, Monet, and Degas.  To appreciate these was still a sign of grace.  Whistler was an influence strong with the English and his compatriots, and the discerning collected Japanese prints.  The old masters were tested by new standards.  The esteem in which Raphael had been for centuries held was a matter of derision to wise young men.  They offered to give all his works for Velasquez’ head of Philip IV in the National Gallery.  Philip found that a discussion on art was raging.  Lawson, whom he had met at luncheon, sat opposite to him.  He was a thin youth with a freckled face and red hair.  He had very bright green eyes.  As Philip sat down he fixed them on him and remarked suddenly: 

“Raphael was only tolerable when he painted other people’s pictures.  When he painted Peruginos or Pinturichios he was charming; when he painted Raphaels he was,” with a scornful shrug, “Raphael.”

Lawson spoke so aggressively that Philip was taken aback, but he was not obliged to answer because Flanagan broke in impatiently.

“Oh, to hell with art!” he cried.  “Let’s get ginny.”

“You were ginny last night, Flanagan,” said Lawson.

“Nothing to what I mean to be tonight,” he answered.  “Fancy being in Pa-ris and thinking of nothing but art all the time.”  He spoke with a broad Western accent.  “My, it is good to be alive.”  He gathered himself together and then banged his fist on the table.  “To hell with art, I say.”

“You not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration,” said Clutton severely.

There was another American at the table.  He was dressed like those fine fellows whom Philip had seen that afternoon in the Luxembourg.  He had a handsome face, thin, ascetic, with dark eyes; he wore his fantastic garb with the dashing air of a buccaneer.  He had a vast quantity of dark hair which fell constantly over his eyes, and his most frequent gesture was to throw back his head dramatically to get some long wisp out of the way.  He began to talk of the Olympia by Manet, which then hung in the Luxembourg.

“I stood in front of it for an hour today, and I tell you it’s not a good picture.”

Lawson put down his knife and fork.  His green eyes flashed fire, he gasped with rage; but he could be seen imposing calm upon himself.

“It’s very interesting to hear the mind of the untutored savage,” he said.  “Will you tell us why it isn’t a good picture?”