d be rotten for your nerves," he said gravely.

Albert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by the four
o'clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip.

"Well, good-bye, old man," he said. "I tell you what, I'll try and come
over to Paris again one of these days and I'll look you up. And then we
won't 'alf go on the razzle."

Philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus and
crossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view at
Durand-Ruel's. After that he strolled along the boulevard. It was cold and
wind-swept. People hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together
in an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and
careworn. It was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among all
those white tombstones. Philip felt lonely in the world and strangely
homesick. He wanted company. At that hour Cronshaw would be working, and
Clutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson was painting another portrait of
Ruth Chalice and would not care to be disturbed. He made up his mind to go
and see Flanagan. He found him painting, but delighted to throw up his
work and talk. The studio was comfortable, for the American had more money
than most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea. Philip looked
at the two heads that he was sending to the Salon.

"It's awful cheek my sending anything," said Flanagan, "but I don't care,
I'm going to send. D'you think they're rotten?"

"Not so rotten as I should have expected," said Philip.

They showed in fact an astounding cleverness. The difficulties had been
avoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way in which the paint
was put on which was surprising and even attractive. Flanagan, without
knowledge or technique, painted with the loose brush of a man who has
spent a lifetime in the practice of the art.

"If one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than thirty seconds
you'd be a great master, Flanagan," smiled Philip.

These young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another with
excessive flattery.

"We haven't got time in America to spend more than thirty seconds in
looking at any picture," laughed the other.

Flanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the world, had
a tenderness of heart which was unexpected and charming. Whenever anyone
was ill he installed himself as sick-nurse. His gaiety was better than any
medicine. Like many of his countrymen