eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he sought out the pornographic.  He went into all the haunts which were specially arranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation could come to no good which permitted that sort of thing.  He nudged Philip when at some revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on, and pointed out to him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall.  It was a vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip saw it with eyes blinded with illusion.  In the early morning he would rush out of the hotel and go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the Place de la Concorde.  It was June, and Paris was silvery with the delicacy of the air.  Philip felt his heart go out to the people.  Here he thought at last was romance.

They spent the inside of a week there, leaving on Sunday, and when Philip late at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his mind was made up; he would surrender his articles, and go to Paris to study art; but so that no one should think him unreasonable he determined to stay at the office till his year was up.  He was to have his holiday during the last fortnight in August, and when he went away he would tell Herbert Carter that he had no intention of returning.  But though Philip could force himself to go to the office every day he could not even pretend to show any interest in the work.  His mind was occupied with the future.  After the middle of July there was nothing much to do and he escaped a good deal by pretending he had to go to lectures for his first examination.  The time he got in this way he spent in the National Gallery.  He read books about Paris and books about painting.  He was steeped in Ruskin.  He read many of Vasari’s lives of the painters.  He liked that story of Correggio, and he fancied himself standing before some great masterpiece and crying:  Anch’ io son’ pittore.  His hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he had in him the makings of a great painter.

“After all, I can only try,” he said to himself.  “The great thing in life is to take risks.”

At last came the middle of August.  Mr. Carter was spending the month in Scotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office.  Mr. Goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip since their trip to Paris, and now that Philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could look upon the funny little man with tolerance.

“You’re going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?” he said to him in the evening.

All day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last time he would ever sit in that hateful office.

“Yes, this is the end of my year.”

“I’m afraid you’ve not done very well.  Mr. Carter’s very dissatisfied with you.”

“Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter,” returned Philip cheerfully.

“I don’t think you should speak like that, Carey.”

“I’m not coming back.  I made the arrangement that if I didn’t like accountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I paid for my articles and I could chuck it at the end of a year.”