As he wandered he chanced to see Miss Price sitting by herself on a bench.  He hesitated, for he did not at that moment want to see anyone, and her uncouth way seemed out of place amid the happiness he felt around him; but he had divined her sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him thought it would be polite to speak to her.

“What are you doing here?” she said, as he came up.

“Enjoying myself.  Aren’t you?”

“Oh, I come here every day from four to five.  I don’t think one does any good if one works straight through.”

“May I sit down for a minute?” he said.

“If you want to.”

“That doesn’t sound very cordial,” he laughed.

“I’m not much of a one for saying pretty things.”

Philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette.

“Did Clutton say anything about my work?” she asked suddenly.

“No, I don’t think he did,” said Philip.

“He’s no good, you know.  He thinks he’s a genius, but he isn’t.  He’s too lazy, for one thing.  Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains.  The only thing is to peg away.  If one only makes up one’s mind badly enough to do a thing one can’t help doing it.”

She spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was rather striking.  She wore a sailor hat of black straw, a white blouse which was not quite clean, and a brown skirt.  She had no gloves on, and her hands wanted washing.  She was so unattractive that Philip wished he had not begun to talk to her.  He could not make out whether she wanted him to stay or go.

“I’ll do anything I can for you,” she said all at once, without reference to anything that had gone before.  “I know how hard it is.”

“Thank you very much,” said Philip, then in a moment:  “Won’t you come and have tea with me somewhere?”

She looked at him quickly and flushed.  When she reddened her pasty skin acquired a curiously mottled look, like strawberries and cream that had gone bad.

“No, thanks.  What d’you think I want tea for?  I’ve only just had lunch.”

“I thought it would pass the time,” said Philip.

“If you find it long you needn’t bother about me, you know.  I don’t mind being left alone.”

At that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens, enormous trousers, and basque caps.  They were young, but both wore beards.

“I say, are those art-students?” said Philip.  “They might have stepped out of the Vie de Boheme.”

“They’re Americans,” said Miss Price scornfully.  “Frenchmen haven’t worn things like that for thirty years, but the Americans from the Far West buy those clothes and have themselves photographed the day after they arrive in Paris.  That’s about as near to art as they ever get.  But it doesn’t matter to them, they’ve all got money.”

Philip liked the daring picturesqueness of the Americans’ costume; he thought it showed the romantic spirit.  Miss Price asked him the time.