“But why don’t you write about Spain?” cried Philip.  “It would be so much more interesting.  You know the life.”

“But Paris is the only place worth writing about.  Paris is life.”

One day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad French, translating excitedly as he went along so that Philip could scarcely understand, he read passages.  It was lamentable.  Philip, puzzled, looked at the picture he was painting:  the mind behind that broad brow was trivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but the obvious.  Philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a sitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done.  It was all very well to aim at the intention of the soul:  who could tell what that was when people seemed a mass of contradictions?  He liked Miguel, and it distressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile:  he had everything to make a good writer but talent.  Philip looked at his own work.  How could you tell whether there was anything in it or whether you were wasting your time?  It was clear that the will to achieve could not help you and confidence in yourself meant nothing.  Philip thought of Fanny Price; she had a vehement belief in her talent; her strength of will was extraordinary.

“If I thought I wasn’t going to be really good, I’d rather give up painting,” said Philip.  “I don’t see any use in being a second-rate painter.”

Then one morning when he was going out, the concierge called out to him that there was a letter.  Nobody wrote to him but his Aunt Louisa and sometimes Hayward, and this was a handwriting he did not know.  The letter was as follows: 

Please come at once when you get this.  I couldn’t put up with it any more.  Please come yourself.  I can’t bear the thought that anyone else should touch me.  I want you to have everything. 
                                                   F. Price

I have not had anything to eat for three days.

Philip felt on a sudden sick with fear.  He hurried to the house in which she lived.  He was astonished that she was in Paris at all.  He had not seen her for months and imagined she had long since returned to England.  When he arrived he asked the concierge whether she was in.

“Yes, I’ve not seen her go out for two days.”

Philip ran upstairs and knocked at the door.  There was no reply.  He called her name.  The door was locked, and on bending down he found the key was in the lock.

“Oh, my God, I hope she hasn’t done something awful,” he cried aloud.