at all events the worst of it. It suggested
itself to him that women were often very emphatic in their expressions.
These did not mean so much as when men used them. He had quite made up his
mind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. He had not
written for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to write now. He
made up his mind not to read the letter.

"I daresay she won't write again," he said to himself. "She can't help
seeing the thing's over. After all, she was old enough to be my mother;
she ought to have known better."

For an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. His attitude was
obviously the right one, but he could not help a feeling of
dissatisfaction with the whole business. Miss Wilkinson, however, did not
write again; nor did she, as he absurdly feared, suddenly appear in Paris
to make him ridiculous before his friends. In a little while he clean
forgot her.

Meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. The amazement with which at
first he had looked upon the works of the impressionists, changed to
admiration; and presently he found himself talking as emphatically as the
rest on the merits of Manet, Monet, and Degas. He bought a photograph of
a drawing by Ingres of the Odalisque and a photograph of the Olympia.
They were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so that he could
contemplate their beauty while he shaved. He knew now quite positively
that there had been no painting of landscape before Monet; and he felt a
real thrill when he stood in front of Rembrandt's Disciples at Emmaus or
Velasquez' Lady with the Flea-bitten Nose. That was not her real name,
but by that she was distinguished at Gravier's to emphasise the picture's
beauty notwithstanding the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the sitter's
appearance. With Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and Watts, he had put aside his
bowler hat and the neat blue tie with white spots which he had worn on
coming to Paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed hat,
a flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic cut. He walked along the
Boulevard du Montparnasse as though he had known it all his life, and by
virtuous perseverance he had learnt to drink absinthe without distaste. He
was letting his hair grow, and it was only because Nature is unkind and
has no regard for the immortal longings of youth that he did not attempt
a beard.

XLV

Philip soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends was
Cronshaw's. I