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‘There, that’s the best picture in the Louvre. It’s exactly
like a Manet.’
With an expressive, eloquent thumb Philip expatiated on
the charming work. He used the jargon of the studios with
overpowering effect.
‘I don’t know that I see anything so wonderful as all that
in it,’ said Hayward.
‘Of course it’s a painter’s picture,’ said Philip. ‘I can quite
believe the layman would see nothing much in it.’
‘The what?’ said Hayward.
‘The layman.’
Like most people who cultivate an interest in the arts,
Hayward was extremely anxious to be right. He was dog-
matic with those who did not venture to assert themselves,
but with the self-assertive he was very modest. He was im-
pressed by Philip’s assurance, and accepted meekly Philip’s
implied suggestion that the painter’s arrogant claim to be
the sole possible judge of painting has anything but its im-
pertinence to recommend it.
A day or two later Philip and Lawson gave their party.
Cronshaw, making an exception in their favour, agreed to
eat their food; and Miss Chalice offered to come and cook
for them. She took no interest in her own sex and declined
the suggestion that other girls should be asked for her sake.
Clutton, Flanagan, Potter, and two others made up the par-
ty. Furniture was scarce, so the model stand was used as a
table, and the guests were to sit on portmanteaux if they
liked, and if they didn’t on the floor. The feast consisted of
a pot-au-feu, which Miss Chalice had made, of a leg of mut-