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"I know myself if it's good or bad." "You mean you don't want other people's bad opinion of your work," answered Clutton dryly. In the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to see the pictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in her accustomed seat.
It was this desire to make a success of life which was at the bottom of Philip's uncertainty about continuing his artistic career. But Clutton began to talk again. "D'you remember my telling you about that chap I met in Brittany? I saw him the other day here. He's just off to Tahiti. He was broke to the world.
Thinking of Cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not seen him for a week, and so, when Clutton left him, he wandered along to the cafe in which he was certain to find the writer. During the first few months of his stay in Paris Philip had accepted as gospel all that Cronshaw said, but Philip had a practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theories which resulted in no action.
"He talked very well." Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw's remark was an answer to the question about Mallarme. Cronshaw often went to the gatherings on Tuesday evenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, and discoursed with subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him. Cronshaw had evidently been there lately. "He talked very well, but he talked nonsense.
Art's the only thing I care for, I'm willing to give my whole life to it. It's only a question of sticking to it and pegging away." She found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take her at her own estimate of herself. She detested Clutton. She told Philip that his friend had no talent really; it was just flashy and superficial; he couldn't compose a figure to save his life.
At last Lawson, exhausted, got up to go home. "I shall go too," said Philip. Clutton, the most silent of them all, remained behind listening, with a sardonic smile on his lips, to Cronshaw's maunderings. Lawson accompanied Philip to his hotel and then bade him good-night. But when Philip got to bed he could not sleep.
Clutton, who never read, had heard them first from Cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they had remained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had acquired the character of a revelation: a good painter had two chief objects to paint, namely, man and the intention of his soul.
Clutton Brock, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, and Mr. McCarthy to begin with can be trusted to say easily, and, if necessary, weekly, about the intrinsic qualities of a book. To be sure, Mr.
Hinton Blewitt, a small and secluded village, 4 m. S.W. from Clutton. The church is Perp., with a fair W. tower. It possesses a stoup and a rather poor piscina. The village, which is on the slope of a hill, commands a pleasant view of the Mendips. Hinton Charterhouse, a small village 6 m. S. of Bath, on the more easterly of the alternative roads from the city to Frome.
Philip remembered that Clutton had spent some months in Toledo, and the journalist's answer made him look at him with more interest; but he felt it would be improper to show this: it was necessary to preserve the distance between the hospital patient and the staff. When he had finished his examination he went on to other beds.
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