Hayward, whom Philip had not seen since he left Heidelberg, arrived in Paris to spend a few days in time to come to the party which Lawson and Philip were giving in their studio to celebrate the hanging of Lawson’s pictures.  Philip had been eager to see Hayward again, but when at last they met, he experienced some disappointment.  Hayward had altered a little in appearance:  his fine hair was thinner, and with the rapid wilting of the very fair, he was becoming wizened and colourless; his blue eyes were paler than they had been, and there was a muzziness about his features.  On the other hand, in mind he did not seem to have changed at all, and the culture which had impressed Philip at eighteen aroused somewhat the contempt of Philip at twenty-one.  He had altered a good deal himself, and regarding with scorn all his old opinions of art, life, and letters, had no patience with anyone who still held them.  He was scarcely conscious of the fact that he wanted to show off before Hayward, but when he took him round the galleries he poured out to him all the revolutionary opinions which himself had so recently adopted.  He took him to Manet’s Olympia and said dramatically: 

“I would give all the old masters except Velasquez, Rembrandt, and Vermeer for that one picture.”

“Who was Vermeer?” asked Hayward.

“Oh, my dear fellow, don’t you know Vermeer?  You’re not civilised.  You mustn’t live a moment longer without making his acquaintance.  He’s the one old master who painted like a modern.”

He dragged Hayward out of the Luxembourg and hurried him off to the Louvre.

“But aren’t there any more pictures here?” asked Hayward, with the tourist’s passion for thoroughness.

“Nothing of the least consequence.  You can come and look at them by yourself with your Baedeker.”

When they arrived at the Louvre Philip led his friend down the Long Gallery.

“I should like to see The Gioconda,” said Hayward.

“Oh, my dear fellow, it’s only literature,” answered Philip.

At last, in a small room, Philip stopped before The Lacemaker of Vermeer van Delft.

“There, that’s the best picture in the Louvre.  It’s exactly like a Manet.”

With an expressive, eloquent thumb Philip expatiated on the charming work.  He used the jargon of the studios with overpowering effect.

“I don’t know that I see anything so wonderful as all that in it,” said Hayward.

“Of course it’s a painter’s picture,” said Philip.  “I can quite believe the layman would see nothing much in it.”

“The what?” said Hayward.

“The layman.”

Like most people who cultivate an interest in the arts, Hayward was extremely anxious to be right.  He was dogmatic with those who did not venture to assert themselves, but with the self-assertive he was very modest.  He was impressed by Philip’s assurance, and accepted meekly Philip’s implied suggestion that the painter’s arrogant claim to be the sole possible judge of painting has anything but its impertinence to recommend it.