“Are you trying to cut me?” she said.

“No, of course not.  I thought perhaps you didn’t want to be spoken to.”

“Where are you going?”

“I wanted to have a look at the Manet, I’ve heard so much about it.”

“Would you like me to come with you?  I know the Luxembourg rather well.  I could show you one or two good things.”

He understood that, unable to bring herself to apologise directly, she made this offer as amends.

“It’s awfully kind of you.  I should like it very much.”

“You needn’t say yes if you’d rather go alone,” she said suspiciously.

“I wouldn’t.”

They walked towards the gallery.  Caillebotte’s collection had lately been placed on view, and the student for the first time had the opportunity to examine at his ease the works of the impressionists.  Till then it had been possible to see them only at Durand-Ruel’s shop in the Rue Lafitte (and the dealer, unlike his fellows in England, who adopt towards the painter an attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the shabbiest student whatever he wanted to see), or at his private house, to which it was not difficult to get a card of admission on Tuesdays, and where you might see pictures of world-wide reputation.  Miss Price led Philip straight up to Manet’s Olympia.  He looked at it in astonished silence.

“Do you like it?” asked Miss Price.

“I don’t know,” he answered helplessly.

“You can take it from me that it’s the best thing in the gallery except perhaps Whistler’s portrait of his mother.”

She gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then took him to a picture representing a railway-station.

“Look, here’s a Monet,” she said.  “It’s the Gare St. Lazare.”

“But the railway lines aren’t parallel,” said Philip.

“What does that matter?” she asked, with a haughty air.

Philip felt ashamed of himself.  Fanny Price had picked up the glib chatter of the studios and had no difficulty in impressing Philip with the extent of her knowledge.  She proceeded to explain the pictures to him, superciliously but not without insight, and showed him what the painters had attempted and what he must look for.  She talked with much gesticulation of the thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said was new, listened with profound but bewildered interest.  Till now he had worshipped Watts and Burne-Jones.  The pretty colour of the first, the affected drawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities.  Their vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which underlay the titles they gave their pictures, accorded very well with the functions of art as from his diligent perusal of Ruskin he understood it; but here was something quite different:  here was no moral appeal; and the contemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer and a higher life.  He was puzzled.