“Yes, that will suit me very well,” said Philip.

“I suppose it’ll do if you go back to Paris in September.”

Philip did not reply.  He had thought much of what Foinet said to him, but he was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future.  There would be something fine in giving up art because he was convinced that he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only to himself:  to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want to confess that he was beaten.  He was an obstinate fellow, and the suspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclined to force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in that direction.  He could not bear that his friends should laugh at him.  This might have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoning the study of painting, but the different environment made him on a sudden see things differently.  Like many another he discovered that crossing the Channel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile.  The life which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it now seemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafes, the restaurants with their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived.  He did not care any more what his friends thought about him:  Cronshaw with his rhetoric, Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her affectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion from them all.  He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all his belongings.  A week later they arrived.  When he unpacked his canvases he found himself able to examine his work without emotion.  He noticed the fact with interest.  His uncle was anxious to see his pictures.  Though he had so greatly disapproved of Philip’s desire to go to Paris, he accepted the situation now with equanimity.  He was interested in the life of students and constantly put Philip questions about it.  He was in fact a little proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were present made attempts to draw him out.  He looked eagerly at the studies of models which Philip showed him.  Philip set before him his portrait of Miguel Ajuria.

“Why did you paint him?” asked Mr. Carey.

“Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me.”

“As you haven’t got anything to do here I wonder you don’t paint me.”

“It would bore you to sit.”

“I think I should like it.”

“We must see about it.”

Philip was amused at his uncle’s vanity.  It was clear that he was dying to have his portrait painted.  To get something for nothing was a chance not to be missed.  For two or three days he threw out little hints.  He reproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling everyone he met that Philip was going to paint him.  At last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said to Philip: