“Besides it would be rotten for your nerves,” he said gravely.

Albert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by the four o’clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip.

“Well, good-bye, old man,” he said.  “I tell you what, I’ll try and come over to Paris again one of these days and I’ll look you up.  And then we won’t ’alf go on the razzle.”

Philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus and crossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view at Durand-Ruel’s.  After that he strolled along the boulevard.  It was cold and wind-swept.  People hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together in an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and careworn.  It was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among all those white tombstones.  Philip felt lonely in the world and strangely homesick.  He wanted company.  At that hour Cronshaw would be working, and Clutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson was painting another portrait of Ruth Chalice and would not care to be disturbed.  He made up his mind to go and see Flanagan.  He found him painting, but delighted to throw up his work and talk.  The studio was comfortable, for the American had more money than most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea.  Philip looked at the two heads that he was sending to the Salon.

“It’s awful cheek my sending anything,” said Flanagan, “but I don’t care, I’m going to send.  D’you think they’re rotten?”

“Not so rotten as I should have expected,” said Philip.

They showed in fact an astounding cleverness.  The difficulties had been avoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way in which the paint was put on which was surprising and even attractive.  Flanagan, without knowledge or technique, painted with the loose brush of a man who has spent a lifetime in the practice of the art.

“If one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than thirty seconds you’d be a great master, Flanagan,” smiled Philip.

These young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another with excessive flattery.

“We haven’t got time in America to spend more than thirty seconds in looking at any picture,” laughed the other.

Flanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the world, had a tenderness of heart which was unexpected and charming.  Whenever anyone was ill he installed himself as sick-nurse.  His gaiety was better than any medicine.  Like many of his countrymen he had not the English dread of sentimentality which keeps so tight a hold on emotion; and, finding nothing absurd in the show of feeling, could offer an exuberant sympathy which was often grateful to his friends in distress.  He saw that Philip was depressed by what he had gone through and with unaffected kindliness set himself boisterously to cheer him up.  He exaggerated the Americanisms which he knew always