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master whose distinction it is that he painted as badly as
the moderns.’
Clutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he
looked at Lawson with a sardonic air.
‘Are you going to show us the stuff you’ve brought back
from Spain?’ asked Philip.
‘I didn’t paint in Spain, I was too busy.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I thought things out. I believe I’m through with the
Impressionists; I’ve got an idea they’ll seem very thin and
superficial in a few years. I want to make a clean sweep of
everything I’ve learnt and start fresh. When I came back
I destroyed everything I’d painted. I’ve got nothing in my
studio now but an easel, my paints, and some clean can-
vases.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve only got an inkling of what I want.’
He spoke slowly, in a curious manner, as though he were
straining to hear something which was only just audible.
There seemed to be a mysterious force in him which he him-
self did not understand, but which was struggling obscurely
to find an outlet. His strength impressed you. Lawson dread-
ed the criticism he asked for and had discounted the blame
he thought he might get by affecting a contempt for any
opinion of Clutton’s; but Philip knew there was nothing
which would give him more pleasure than Clutton’s praise.
Clutton looked at the portrait for some time in silence, then
glanced at Philip’s picture, which was standing on an easel.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Of Human Bondage