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It was the first time that Philip set about a portrait, and he began with trepidation but also with pride. He sat by Lawson and painted as he saw him paint. He profited by the example and by the advice which both Lawson and Miss Chalice freely gave him. At last Lawson finished and invited Clutton in to criticise. Clutton had only just come back to Paris.
But before he could add another word, Clutton rapped with the handle of his knife imperiously on the table. "Gentlemen," he said in a stern voice, and his huge nose positively wrinkled with passion, "a name has been mentioned which I never thought to hear again in decent society. Freedom of speech is all very well, but we must observe the limits of common propriety.
I don't think one does any good if one works straight through." "May I sit down for a minute?" he said. "If you want to." "That doesn't sound very cordial," he laughed. "I'm not much of a one for saying pretty things." Philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette. "Did Clutton say anything about my work?" she asked suddenly. "No, I don't think he did," said Philip.
Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her affectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion from them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all his belongings. A week later they arrived. When he unpacked his canvases he found himself able to examine his work without emotion. He noticed the fact with interest.
Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, I'll just help you a little," she said. "Miss Price dislikes me because I have humour," said Clutton, looking meditatively at his canvas, "but she detests me because I have genius." He spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshapen nose made what he said very quaint. Philip was obliged to laugh, but Miss Price grew darkly red with anger.
Clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mind on what he wanted to say. "The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is impelled to express it and, he doesn't know why, he can only express his feeling by lines and colours.
The idea appealed to Hayward, and they jumped into a cab which took them to Westminster Bridge. They got on the steamboat just as she was starting. Presently Philip, a smile on his lips, spoke. "I remember when first I went to Paris, Clutton, I think it was, gave a long discourse on the subject that beauty is put into things by painters and poets. They create beauty.
"Oh, I had a shot at a portrait too." "The sedulous ape," he murmured. He turned away again to Lawson's canvas. Philip reddened but did not speak. "Well, what d'you think of it?" asked Lawson at length. "The modelling's jolly good," said Clutton. "And I think it's very well drawn." "D'you think the values are all right?" "Quite." Lawson smiled with delight.
It gets its name from the land having been bestowed by Edward the Elder upon Asser, Bishop of Sherborne, in 904. Its church has an exceptionally fine tower, with double windows in the belfry. The W. window is good and the tower arch very lofty. There is also the base and broken shaft of what was once the village cross. Bishop's Sutton, a village 2-3/4 m. W. of Clutton, with a modern church.
It was plain anyway that the life which Clutton seemed destined to was failure. Its only justification would be the painting of imperishable masterpieces. He recollected Cronshaw's whimsical metaphor of the Persian carpet; he had thought of it often; but Cronshaw with his faun-like humour had refused to make his meaning clear: he repeated that it had none unless one discovered it for oneself.
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