“What’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, I had a shot at a portrait too.”

“The sedulous ape,” he murmured.

He turned away again to Lawson’s canvas.  Philip reddened but did not speak.

“Well, what d’you think of it?” asked Lawson at length.

“The modelling’s jolly good,” said Clutton.  “And I think it’s very well drawn.”

“D’you think the values are all right?”

“Quite.”

Lawson smiled with delight.  He shook himself in his clothes like a wet dog.

“I say, I’m jolly glad you like it.”

“I don’t.  I don’t think it’s of the smallest importance.”

Lawson’s face fell, and he stared at Clutton with astonishment:  he had no notion what he meant, Clutton had no gift of expression in words, and he spoke as though it were an effort.  What he had to say was confused, halting, and verbose; but Philip knew the words which served as the text of his rambling discourse.  Clutton, who never read, had heard them first from Cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they had remained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had acquired the character of a revelation:  a good painter had two chief objects to paint, namely, man and the intention of his soul.  The Impressionists had been occupied with other problems, they had painted man admirably, but they had troubled themselves as little as the English portrait painters of the eighteenth century with the intention of his soul.

“But when you try to get that you become literary,” said Lawson, interrupting.  “Let me paint the man like Manet, and the intention of his soul can go to the devil.”

“That would be all very well if you could beat Manet at his own game, but you can’t get anywhere near him.  You can’t feed yourself on the day before yesterday, it’s ground which has been swept dry.  You must go back.  It’s when I saw the Grecos that I felt one could get something more out of portraits than we knew before.”

“It’s just going back to Ruskin,” cried Lawson.

“No—­you see, he went for morality:  I don’t care a damn for morality:  teaching doesn’t come in, ethics and all that, but passion and emotion.  The greatest portrait painters have painted both, man and the intention of his soul; Rembrandt and El Greco; it’s only the second-raters who’ve only painted man.  A lily of the valley would be lovely even if it didn’t smell, but it’s more lovely because it has perfume.  That picture”—­he pointed to Lawson’s portrait—­“well, the drawing’s all right and so’s the modelling all right, but just conventional; it ought to be drawn and modelled so that you know the girl’s a lousy slut.  Correctness is all very well:  El Greco made his people eight feet high because he wanted to express something he couldn’t get any other way.”

“Damn El Greco,” said Lawson, “what’s the good of jawing about a man when we haven’t a chance of seeing any of his work?”