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‘I hope you haven’t come with the idea that you will learn
anything here which will be of the smallest use to you.’
‘It’s the best school in Paris,’ said Miss Price. ‘It’s the only
one where they take art seriously.’
‘Should art be taken seriously?’ the young man asked;
and since Miss Price replied only with a scornful shrug, he
added: ‘But the point is, all schools are bad. They are aca-
demical, obviously. Why this is less injurious than most is
that the teaching is more incompetent than elsewhere. Be-
cause you learn nothing....’
‘But why d’you come here then?’ interrupted Philip.
‘I see the better course, but do not follow it. Miss Price,
who is cultured, will remember the Latin of that.’
‘I wish you would leave me out of your conversation, Mr.
Clutton,’ said Miss Price brusquely.
‘The only way to learn to paint,’ he went on, imperturb-
able, ‘is to take a studio, hire a model, and just fight it out
for yourself.’
‘That seems a simple thing to do,’ said Philip.
‘It only needs money,’ replied Clutton.
He began to paint, and Philip looked at him from the
comer of his eye. He was long and desperately thin; his huge
bones seemed to protrude from his body; his elbows were
so sharp that they appeared to jut out through the arms of
his shabby coat. His trousers were frayed at the bottom, and
on each of his boots was a clumsy patch. Miss Price got up
and went over to Philip’s easel.
‘If Mr. Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, I’ll just
help you a little,’ she said.