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ed in execrable French.
‘Je vous paye pour m’apprendre.’
His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook
his fist.
‘Mais, nom de Dieu, I can’t teach you. I could more easily
teach a camel.’ He turned to Mrs. Otter. ‘Ask her, does she
do this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money
by it?’
‘I’m going to earn my living as an artist,’ Miss Price an-
swered.
‘Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your
time. It would not matter that you have no talent, talent does
not run about the streets in these days, but you have not the
beginning of an aptitude. How long have you been here? A
child of five after two lessons would draw better than you
do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless at-
tempt. You’re more likely to earn your living as a bonne a
tout faire than as a painter. Look.’
He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it
to the paper. He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm
lines. He drew rapidly and spoke at the same time, spitting
out the words with venom.
‘Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it’s
grotesque. I tell you a child of five. You see, she’s not stand-
ing on her legs. That foot!’
With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in
a moment the drawing upon which Fanny Price had spent
so much time and eager trouble was unrecognisable, a
confusion of lines and smudges. At last he flung down the

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