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Philip told him where his studio was. Foinet turned
round.
‘Let us go there? You shall show me your work.’
‘Now?’ cried Philip.
‘Why not?’
Philip had nothing to say. He walked silently by the
master’s side. He felt horribly sick. It had never struck him
that Foinet would wish to see his things there and then; he
meant, so that he might have time to prepare himself, to ask
him if he would mind coming at some future date or wheth-
er he might bring them to Foinet’s studio. He was trembling
with anxiety. In his heart he hoped that Foinet would look
at his picture, and that rare smile would come into his face,
and he would shake Philip’s hand and say: ‘Pas mal. Go on,
my lad. You have talent, real talent.’ Philip’s heart swelled at
the thought. It was such a relief, such a joy! Now he could go
on with courage; and what did hardship matter, privation,
and disappointment, if he arrived at last? He had worked
very hard, it would be too cruel if all that industry were
futile. And then with a start he remembered that he had
heard Fanny Price say just that. They arrived at the house,
and Philip was seized with fear. If he had dared he would
have asked Foinet to go away. He did not want to know the
truth. They went in and the concierge handed him a letter
as they passed. He glanced at the envelope and recognised
his uncle’s handwriting. Foinet followed him up the stairs.
Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and
the silence got on his nerves. The professor sat down; and
Philip without a word placed before him the picture which

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