The desire of all of them was to have a mistress.  It was part of the paraphernalia of the art-student in Paris.  It gave consideration in the eyes of one’s fellows.  It was something to boast about.  But the difficulty was that they had scarcely enough money to keep themselves, and though they argued that French-women were so clever it cost no more to keep two then one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were willing to take that view of the circumstances.  They had to content themselves for the most part with envying and abusing the ladies who received protection from painters of more settled respectability than their own.  It was extraordinary how difficult these things were in Paris.  Lawson would become acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; for twenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the charmer at length to everyone he met; but she never by any chance turned up at the time fixed.  He would come to Gravier’s very late, ill-tempered, and exclaim: 

“Confound it, another rabbit!  I don’t know why it is they don’t like me.  I suppose it’s because I don’t speak French well, or my red hair.  It’s too sickening to have spent over a year in Paris without getting hold of anyone.”

“You don’t go the right way to work,” said Flanagan.

He had a long and enviable list of triumphs to narrate, and though they took leave not to believe all he said, evidence forced them to acknowledge that he did not altogether lie.  But he sought no permanent arrangement.  He only had two years in Paris:  he had persuaded his people to let him come and study art instead of going to college; but at the end of that period he was to return to Seattle and go into his father’s business.  He had made up his mind to get as much fun as possible into the time, and demanded variety rather than duration in his love affairs.

“I don’t know how you get hold of them,” said Lawson furiously.

“There’s no difficulty about that, sonny,” answered Flanagan.  “You just go right in.  The difficulty is to get rid of them.  That’s where you want tact.”

Philip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was reading, the plays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to trouble himself with the desire for female society.  He thought there would be plenty of time for that when he could speak French more glibly.

It was more than a year now since he had seen Miss Wilkinson, and during his first weeks in Paris he had been too busy to answer a letter she had written to him just before he left Blackstable.  When another came, knowing it would be full of reproaches and not being just then in the mood for them, he put it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and did not run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out a drawer to find some socks that had no holes in them.  He looked at the unopened letter with dismay.  He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson