“Off where?” she said quickly.  “You’re not going away?” Her face fell.

“I’m going away for the summer.  Aren’t you?”

“No, I’m staying in Paris.  I thought you were going to stay too.  I was looking forward....”

She stopped and shrugged her shoulders.

“But won’t it be frightfully hot here?  It’s awfully bad for you.”

“Much you care if it’s bad for me.  Where are you going?”

“Moret.”

“Chalice is going there.  You’re not going with her?”

“Lawson and I are going.  And she’s going there too.  I don’t know that we’re actually going together.”

She gave a low guttural sound, and her large face grew dark and red.

“How filthy!  I thought you were a decent fellow.  You were about the only one here.  She’s been with Clutton and Potter and Flanagan, even with old Foinet—­that’s why he takes so much trouble about her—­and now two of you, you and Lawson.  It makes me sick.”

“Oh, what nonsense!  She’s a very decent sort.  One treats her just as if she were a man.”

“Oh, don’t speak to me, don’t speak to me.”

“But what can it matter to you?” asked Philip.  “It’s really no business of yours where I spend my summer.”

“I was looking forward to it so much,” she gasped, speaking it seemed almost to herself.  “I didn’t think you had the money to go away, and there wouldn’t have been anyone else here, and we could have worked together, and we’d have gone to see things.”  Then her thoughts flung back to Ruth Chalice.  “The filthy beast,” she cried.  “She isn’t fit to speak to.”

Philip looked at her with a sinking heart.  He was not a man to think girls were in love with him; he was too conscious of his deformity, and he felt awkward and clumsy with women; but he did not know what else this outburst could mean.  Fanny Price, in the dirty brown dress, with her hair falling over her face, sloppy, untidy, stood before him; and tears of anger rolled down her cheeks.  She was repellent.  Philip glanced at the door, instinctively hoping that someone would come in and put an end to the scene.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he said.

“You’re just the same as all of them.  You take all you can get, and you don’t even say thank you.  I’ve taught you everything you know.  No one else would take any trouble with you.  Has Foinet ever bothered about you?  And I can tell you this—­you can work here for a thousand years and you’ll never do any good.  You haven’t got any talent.  You haven’t got any originality.  And it’s not only me—­they all say it.  You’ll never be a painter as long as you live.”

“That is no business of yours either, is it?” said Philip, flushing.

“Oh, you think it’s only my temper.  Ask Clutton, ask Lawson, ask Chalice.  Never, never, never.  You haven’t got it in you.”

Philip shrugged his shoulders and walked out.  She shouted after him.