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all, and the culture which had impressed Philip at eighteen
aroused somewhat the contempt of Philip at twenty-one.
He had altered a good deal himself, and regarding with
scorn all his old opinions of art, life, and letters, had no
patience with anyone who still held them. He was scarcely
conscious of the fact that he wanted to show off before Hay-
ward, but when he took him round the galleries he poured
out to him all the revolutionary opinions which himself had
so recently adopted. He took him to Manet’s Olympia and
said dramatically:
‘I would give all the old masters except Velasquez, Rem-
brandt, and Vermeer for that one picture.’
‘Who was Vermeer?’ asked Hayward.
‘Oh, my dear fellow, don’t you know Vermeer? You’re not
civilised. You mustn’t live a moment longer without mak-
ing his acquaintance. He’s the one old master who painted
like a modern.’
He dragged Hayward out of the Luxembourg and hur-
ried him off to the Louvre.
‘But aren’t there any more pictures here?’ asked Hayward,
with the tourist’s passion for thoroughness.
‘Nothing of the least consequence. You can come and
look at them by yourself with your Baedeker.’
When they arrived at the Louvre Philip led his friend
down the Long Gallery.
‘I should like to see The Gioconda,’ said Hayward.
‘Oh, my dear fellow, it’s only literature,’ answered Philip.
At last, in a small room, Philip stopped before The Lace-
maker of Vermeer van Delft.

Of Human Bondage