“Had a bath this morning?” Thompson said when Philip came to the office late, for his early punctuality had not lasted.

“Yes, haven’t you?”

“No, I’m not a gentleman, I’m only a clerk.  I have a bath on Saturday night.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re more than usually disagreeable on Monday.”

“Will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today?  I’m afraid it’s asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows Latin and Greek.”

“Your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy.”

But Philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks, ill-paid and uncouth, were more useful than himself.  Once or twice Mr. Goodworthy grew impatient with him.

“You really ought to be able to do better than this by now,” he said.  “You’re not even as smart as the office-boy.”

Philip listened sulkily.  He did not like being blamed, and it humiliated him, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies of, Mr. Goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to do.  At first the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it grew irksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he began to hate it.  Often, when he should have been doing something that was given him, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office note-paper.  He made sketches of Watson in every conceivable attitude, and Watson was impressed by his talent.  It occurred to him to take the drawings home, and he came back next day with the praises of his family.

“I wonder you didn’t become a painter,” he said.  “Only of course there’s no money in it.”

It chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining with the Watsons, and the sketches were shown him.  The following morning he sent for Philip.  Philip saw him seldom and stood in some awe of him.

“Look here, young fellow, I don’t care what you do out of office-hours, but I’ve seen those sketches of yours and they’re on office-paper, and Mr. Goodworthy tells me you’re slack.  You won’t do any good as a chartered accountant unless you look alive.  It’s a fine profession, and we’re getting a very good class of men in it, but it’s a profession in which you have to...” he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could not find exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, “in which you have to look alive.”

Perhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if he did not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half the money paid for his articles.  He felt that he was fit for something better than to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so ill something which seemed contemptible.  The vulgar scenes with Thompson got on his nerves.  In March Watson ended his year at the office and Philip, though he did not care for him, saw him go with regret.  The fact that the other clerks disliked them equally, because they