“He’s got no right to treat me like that.  My money’s as good as anyone else’s.  I pay him to teach me.  That’s not teaching me.”

“What does she say?  What does she say?” asked Foinet.

Mrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in execrable French.

“Je vous paye pour m’apprendre.”

His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist.

“Mais, nom de Dieu, I can’t teach you.  I could more easily teach a camel.”  He turned to Mrs. Otter.  “Ask her, does she do this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money by it?”

“I’m going to earn my living as an artist,” Miss Price answered.

“Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time.  It would not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets in these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude.  How long have you been here?  A child of five after two lessons would draw better than you do.  I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt.  You’re more likely to earn your living as a bonne a tout faire than as a painter.  Look.”

He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper.  He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines.  He drew rapidly and spoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom.

“Look, those arms are not the same length.  That knee, it’s grotesque.  I tell you a child of five.  You see, she’s not standing on her legs.  That foot!”

With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing upon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble was unrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges.  At last he flung down the charcoal and stood up.

“Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking.”  He looked at his watch.  “It’s twelve.  A la semaine prochaine, messieurs.”

Miss Price gathered up her things slowly.  Philip waited behind after the others to say to her something consolatory.  He could think of nothing but: 

“I say, I’m awfully sorry.  What a beast that man is!”

She turned on him savagely.

“Is that what you’re waiting about for?  When I want your sympathy I’ll ask for it.  Please get out of my way.”

She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of the shoulders, limped along to Gravier’s for luncheon.

“It served her right,” said Lawson, when Philip told him what had happened.  “Ill-tempered slut.”

Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never went to the studio when Foinet was coming.

“I don’t want other people’s opinion of my work,” he said.  “I know myself if it’s good or bad.”

“You mean you don’t want other people’s bad opinion of your work,” answered Clutton dryly.

In the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to see the pictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in her accustomed seat.  He was sore at the rudeness with which she had met his well-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he had not caught sight of her.  But she got up at once and came towards him.