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not written for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to
write now. He made up his mind not to read the letter.
‘I daresay she won’t write again,’ he said to himself. ‘She
can’t help seeing the thing’s over. After all, she was old
enough to be my mother; she ought to have known better.’
For an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. His at-
titude was obviously the right one, but he could not help
a feeling of dissatisfaction with the whole business. Miss
Wilkinson, however, did not write again; nor did she, as he
absurdly feared, suddenly appear in Paris to make him ri-
diculous before his friends. In a little while he clean forgot
her.
Meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. The
amazement with which at first he had looked upon the
works of the impressionists, changed to admiration; and
presently he found himself talking as emphatically as the
rest on the merits of Manet, Monet, and Degas. He bought
a photograph of a drawing by Ingres of the Odalisque and a
photograph of the Olympia. They were pinned side by side
over his washing-stand so that he could contemplate their
beauty while he shaved. He knew now quite positively that
there had been no painting of landscape before Monet; and
he felt a real thrill when he stood in front of Rembrandt’s
Disciples at Emmaus or Velasquez’ Lady with the Flea-bit-
ten Nose. That was not her real name, but by that she was
distinguished at Gravier’s to emphasise the picture’s beauty
notwithstanding the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the
sitter’s appearance. With Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and Watts,
he had put aside his bowler hat and the neat blue tie with

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