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himself to console him. It was notorious that the Salon had
refused pictures which were afterwards famous; it was the
first time Philip had sent, and he must expect a rebuff; Fla-
nagan’s success was explicable, his picture was showy and
superficial: it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would
see merit in. Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that
Lawson should think him capable of being seriously dis-
turbed by so trivial a calamity and would not realise that
his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of his pow-
ers.
Of late Clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from
the group who took their meals at Gravier’s, and lived very
much by himself. Flanagan said he was in love with a girl,
but Clutton’s austere countenance did not suggest passion;
and Philip thought it more probable that he separated him-
self from his friends so that he might grow clear with the
new ideas which were in him. But that evening, when the
others had left the restaurant to go to a play and Philip was
sitting alone, Clutton came in and ordered dinner. They be-
gan to talk, and finding Clutton more loquacious and less
sardonic than usual, Philip determined to take advantage
of his good humour.
‘I say I wish you’d come and look at my picture,’ he said.
‘I’d like to know what you think of it.’
‘No, I won’t do that.’
‘Why not?’ asked Philip, reddening.
The request was one which they all made of one another,
and no one ever thought of refusing. Clutton shrugged his
shoulders.

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