“Oh, what a misery to be poor!” she cried.  “These beautiful things, it’s only in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them!  Poor Madame Foyot, she had no figure.  Sometimes the dressmaker used to whisper to me:  `Ah, Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.’ "

Philip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and was proud of it.

“Men are so stupid in England.  They only think of the face.  The French, who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is.”

Philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now that Miss Wilkinson’s ankles were thick and ungainly.  He withdrew his eyes quickly.

“You should go to France.  Why don’t you go to Paris for a year?  You would learn French, and it would—­deniaiser you.”

“What is that?” asked Philip.

She laughed slyly.

“You must look it out in the dictionary.  Englishmen do not know how to treat women.  They are so shy.  Shyness is ridiculous in a man.  They don’t know how to make love.  They can’t even tell a woman she is charming without looking foolish.”

Philip felt himself absurd.  Miss Wilkinson evidently expected him to behave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallant and witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he was too much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them.

“Oh, I love Paris,” sighed Miss Wilkinson.  “But I had to go to Berlin.  I was with the Foyots till the girls married, and then I could get nothing to do, and I had the chance of this post in Berlin.  They’re relations of Madame Foyot, and I accepted.  I had a tiny apartment in the Rue Breda, on the cinquieme:  it wasn’t at all respectable.  You know about the Rue Breda—­ces dames, you know.”

Philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting, and anxious she should not think him too ignorant.

“But I didn’t care.  Je suis libre, n’est-ce pas?” She was very fond of speaking French, which indeed she spoke well.  “Once I had such a curious adventure there.”

She paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it.

“You wouldn’t tell me yours in Heidelberg,” she said.

“They were so unadventurous,” he retorted.

“I don’t know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things we talk about together.”

“You don’t imagine I shall tell her.”

“Will you promise?”

When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on the floor above her—­but she interrupted herself.

“Why don’t you go in for art?  You paint so prettily.”

“Not well enough for that.”

“That is for others to judge.  Je m’y connais, and I believe you have the making of a great artist.”

“Can’t you see Uncle William’s face if I suddenly told him I wanted to go to Paris and study art?”