Quai des Grands Augustins, and the photograph of the Odalisque by Ingres and Manet’s Olympia which in Paris had been the objects of his contemplation while he shaved.  To remind himself that he too had once been engaged in the practice of art, he put up a charcoal drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel Ajuria:  it was the best thing he had ever done, a nude standing with clenched hands, his feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on his face that air of determination which had been so impressive; and though Philip after the long interval saw very well the defects of his work its associations made him look upon it with tolerance.  He wondered what had happened to Miguel.  There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit of art by those who have no talent.  Perhaps, worn out by exposure, starvation, disease, he had found an end in some hospital, or in an access of despair had sought death in the turbid Seine; but perhaps with his Southern instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and now, a clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to politics and bull-fighting.

Philip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras; and he was delighted when they praised his taste.  He would have invited the Scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus could entertain only a definite number of guests.  Lawson was aware that through him Philip had become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now remarked that he had run across her a few days before.

“She was asking how you were.”

Philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out of the awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and Lawson looked at him quizzically.  Lawson, who now spent most of the year in London, had so far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair short and to dress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat.

“I gather that all is over between you,” he said.

“I’ve not seen her for months.”

“She was looking rather nice.  She had a very smart hat on with a lot of white ostrich feathers on it.  She must be doing pretty well.”

Philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after an interval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he asked suddenly: 

“Did you gather that Norah was angry with me?”

“Not a bit.  She talked very nicely of you.”

“I’ve got half a mind to go and see her.”

“She won’t eat you.”

Philip had thought of Norah often.  When Mildred left him his first thought was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never have treated him so.  His impulse was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he was ashamed:  she had been good to him always, and he had treated her abominably.

“If I’d only had the sense to stick to her!” he said to himself, afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking a last pipe before going to bed.