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Philip seemed really to be born again. He breathed the
circumambient air as though he had never breathed it be-
fore, and he took a child’s pleasure in all the facts of the
world. He called his period of insanity six months’ hard la-
bour.
Hayward had only been settled in London a few days
when Philip received from Blackstable, where it had been
sent, a card for a private view at some picture gallery. He
took Hayward, and, on looking at the catalogue, saw that
Lawson had a picture in it.
‘I suppose he sent the card,’ said Philip. ‘Let’s go and find
him, he’s sure to be in front of his picture.’
This, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a cor-
ner, and Lawson was not far from it. He looked a little lost,
in his large soft hat and loose, pale clothes, amongst the
fashionable throng that had gathered for the private view.
He greeted Philip with enthusiasm, and with his usual vol-
ubility told him that he had come to live in London, Ruth
Chalice was a hussy, he had taken a studio, Paris was played
out, he had a commission for a portrait, and they’d better
dine together and have a good old talk. Philip reminded him
of his acquaintance with Hayward, and was entertained to
see that Lawson was slightly awed by Hayward’s elegant
clothes and grand manner. They sat upon him better than
they had done in the shabby little studio which Lawson and
Philip had shared.
At dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had
gone back to America. Clutton had disappeared. He had
come to the conclusion that a man had no chance of doing

0 Of Human Bondage