He wrote to Miss Wilkinson and asked her how much she thought he could live on in Paris.  She told him that he could manage easily on eighty pounds a year, and she enthusiastically approved of his project.  She told him he was too good to be wasted in an office.  Who would be a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, and she besought Philip to believe in himself:  that was the great thing.  But Philip had a cautious nature.  It was all very well for Hayward to talk of taking risks, he had three hundred a year in gilt-edged securities; Philip’s entire fortune amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds.  He hesitated.

Then it chanced that one day Mr. Goodworthy asked him suddenly if he would like to go to Paris.  The firm did the accounts for a hotel in the Faubourg St. Honore, which was owned by an English company, and twice a year Mr. Goodworthy and a clerk went over.  The clerk who generally went happened to be ill, and a press of work prevented any of the others from getting away.  Mr. Goodworthy thought of Philip because he could best be spared, and his articles gave him some claim upon a job which was one of the pleasures of the business.  Philip was delighted.

“You’ll ’ave to work all day,” said Mr. Goodworthy, “but we get our evenings to ourselves, and Paris is Paris.”  He smiled in a knowing way.  “They do us very well at the hotel, and they give us all our meals, so it don’t cost one anything.  That’s the way I like going to Paris, at other people’s expense.”

When they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of gesticulating porters his heart leaped.

“This is the real thing,” he said to himself.

He was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored the sand dunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had ever seen; and he was enchanted with the canals and the long lines of poplars.  When they got out of the Gare du Nord, and trundled along the cobbled streets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathing a new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself from shouting aloud.  They were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, a stout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr. Goodworthy was an old friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in his private room with his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he had never eaten anything so delicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor drunk such nectar as the vin ordinaire, which were set before them.

To Mr. Goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent principles, the capital of France was a paradise of the joyously obscene.  He asked the manager next morning what there was to be seen that was `thick.’  He thoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to Paris; he said they kept you from growing rusty.  In the evenings, after their work was over and they had dined, he took Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres.  His little