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Clutton shrugged his shoulders. "People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise. Besides, what's the good of criticism? What does it matter if your picture is good or bad?" "It matters to me." "No. The only reason that one paints is that one can't help it. It's a function like any of the other functions of the body, only comparatively few people have got it.
Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that Lawson should think him capable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a calamity and would not realise that his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of his powers. Of late Clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from the group who took their meals at Gravier's, and lived very much by himself.
He found it difficult to know Clutton any better after seeing him every day for three months than on the first day of their acquaintance. The general impression at the studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do great things, and he shared the general opinion; but what exactly he was going to do neither he nor anybody else quite knew.
When Clutton got up he said: "I expect you'll find me here this evening if you care to come. You'll find this about the best place for getting dyspepsia at the lowest cost in the Quarter." Philip walked down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was not at all like the Paris he had seen in the spring during his visit to do the accounts of the Hotel St.
"You're beginning to learn to draw." Clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air of sardonic indifference to the world's opinion. "I'm beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent." Mrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did not see anything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and went into technical details. Mrs.
Philip soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends was Cronshaw's. It was from him that Lawson got his paradoxes; and even Clutton, who strained after individuality, expressed himself in the terms he had insensibly acquired from the older man. It was his ideas that they bandied about at table, and on his authority they formed their judgments.
She's a disagreeable, ill-natured girl, and she can't draw herself at all, but she knows the ropes, and she can be useful to a newcomer if she cares to take the trouble." On the way down the street Clutton said to him: "You've made an impression on Fanny Price. You'd better look out." Philip laughed. He had never seen anyone on whom he wished less to make an impression.
"By the way, what's your name?" said Clutton, as they took their seats. "Carey." "Allow me to introduce an old and trusted friend, Carey by name," said Clutton gravely. "Mr. Flanagan, Mr. Lawson." They laughed and went on with their conversation. They talked of a thousand things, and they all talked at once. No one paid the smallest attention to anyone else.
"My, it is good to be alive." He gathered himself together and then banged his fist on the table. "To hell with art, I say." "You not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration," said Clutton severely. There was another American at the table. He was dressed like those fine fellows whom Philip had seen that afternoon in the Luxembourg.
Clutton and Potter sat on each side of her, and everyone knew that neither had found her unduly coy. She grew tired of most people in six weeks, but she knew exactly how to treat afterwards the gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. She bore them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do so, and treated them with friendliness but without familiarity.
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