belonged to a class a little higher than their own, was a bond of union.  When Philip thought that he must spend over four years more with that dreary set of fellows his heart sank.  He had expected wonderful things from London and it had given him nothing.  He hated it now.  He did not know a soul, and he had no idea how he was to get to know anyone.  He was tired of going everywhere by himself.  He began to feel that he could not stand much more of such a life.  He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy of never seeing again that dingy office or any of the men in it, and of getting away from those drab lodgings.

A great disappointment befell him in the spring.  Hayward had announced his intention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked forward very much to seeing him again.  He had read so much lately and thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in abstract things.  He was quite excited at the thought of talking his fill with someone, and he was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that the spring was lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he could not bear to tear himself away.  He went on to ask why Philip did not come.  What was the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office when the world was beautiful?  The letter proceeded.

I wonder you can bear it.  I think of Fleet Street and Lincoln’s Inn now with a shudder of disgust.  There are only two things in the world that make life worth living, love and art.  I cannot imagine you sitting in an office over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a little black bag?  My feeling is that one should look upon life as an adventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one should take risks, one should expose oneself to danger.  Why do you not go to Paris and study art?  I always thought you had talent.

The suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some time had been vaguely turning over in his mind.  It startled him at first, but he could not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination over it he found his only escape from the wretchedness of his present state.  They all thought he had talent; at Heidelberg they had admired his water colours, Miss Wilkinson had told him over and over again that they were chasing; even strangers like the Watsons had been struck by his sketches.  La Vie de Boheme had made a deep impression on him.  He had brought it to London and when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to be transported into those chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of them danced and loved and sang.  He began to think of Paris as before he had thought of London, but he had no fear of a second disillusion; he yearned for romance and beauty and love, and Paris seemed to offer them all.  He had a passion for pictures, and why should he not be able to paint as well as anybody else?