east, with his red hair and his freckles. He's so afraid of
Foinet that he won't let him see his work. After all, I don't funk it, do
I? I don't care what Foinet says to me, I know I'm a real artist."

They reached the street in which she lived, and with a sigh of relief
Philip left her.

XLIV

But notwithstanding when Miss Price on the following Sunday offered to
take him to the Louvre Philip accepted. She showed him Mona Lisa. He
looked at it with a slight feeling of disappointment, but he had read till
he knew by heart the jewelled words with which Walter Pater has added
beauty to the most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeated
to Miss Price.

"That's all literature," she said, a little contemptuously. "You must get
away from that."

She showed him the Rembrandts, and she said many appropriate things about
them. She stood in front of the Disciples at Emmaus.

"When you feel the beauty of that," she said, "you'll know something about
painting."

She showed him the Odalisque and La Source of Ingres. Fanny Price was
a peremptory guide, she would not let him look at the things he wished,
and attempted to force his admiration for all she admired. She was
desperately in earnest with her study of art, and when Philip, passing in
the Long Gallery a window that looked out on the Tuileries, gay, sunny,
and urbane, like a picture by Raffaelli, exclaimed:

"I say, how jolly! Do let's stop here a minute."

She said, indifferently: "Yes, it's all right. But we've come here to look
at pictures."

The autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and when towards
mid-day they stood in the great court-yard of the Louvre, he felt inclined
to cry like Flanagan: To hell with art.

"I say, do let's go to one of those restaurants in the Boul' Mich' and
have a snack together, shall we?" he suggested.

Miss Price gave him a suspicious look.

"I've got my lunch waiting for me at home," she answered.

"That doesn't matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me stand you a
lunch."

"I don't know why you want to."

"It would give me pleasure," he replied, smiling.

They crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard St. Michel
there was a restaurant.

"Let's go in there."

"No, I won't go there, it looks too expensive."

She walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow. A few steps
brought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people were already
lunching on the pavement under