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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 Ma-
net, 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 im-
posing 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 pic-
ture?’
Before the American could answer someone else broke
in vehemently.