He had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds, and it would be necessary for him to practise the severest economy.  He could not count on earning anything for ten years.  The history of painting was full of artists who had earned nothing at all.  He must resign himself to penury; and it was worth while if he produced work which was immortal; but he had a terrible fear that he would never be more than second-rate.  Was it worth while for that to give up one’s youth, and the gaiety of life, and the manifold chances of being?  He knew the existence of foreign painters in Paris enough to see that the lives they led were narrowly provincial.  He knew some who had dragged along for twenty years in the pursuit of a fame which always escaped them till they sunk into sordidness and alcoholism.  Fanny’s suicide had aroused memories, and Philip heard ghastly stories of the way in which one person or another had escaped from despair.  He remembered the scornful advice which the master had given poor Fanny:  it would have been well for her if she had taken it and given up an attempt which was hopeless.

Philip finished his portrait of Miguel Ajuria and made up his mind to send it to the Salon.  Flanagan was sending two pictures, and he thought he could paint as well as Flanagan.  He had worked so hard on the portrait that he could not help feeling it must have merit.  It was true that when he looked at it he felt that there was something wrong, though he could not tell what; but when he was away from it his spirits went up and he was not dissatisfied.  He sent it to the Salon and it was refused.  He did not mind much, since he had done all he could to persuade himself that there was little chance that it would be taken, till Flanagan a few days later rushed in to tell Lawson and Philip that one of his pictures was accepted.  With a blank face Philip offered his congratulations, and Flanagan was so busy congratulating himself that he did not catch the note of irony which Philip could not prevent from coming into his voice.  Lawson, quicker-witted, observed it and looked at Philip curiously.  His own picture was all right, he knew that a day or two before, and he was vaguely resentful of Philip’s attitude.  But he was surprised at the sudden question which Philip put him as soon as the American was gone.

“If you were in my place would you chuck the whole thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I wonder if it’s worth while being a second-rate painter.  You see, in other things, if you’re a doctor or if you’re in business, it doesn’t matter so much if you’re mediocre.  You make a living and you get along.  But what is the good of turning out second-rate pictures?”

Lawson was fond of Philip and, as soon as he thought he was seriously distressed by the refusal of his picture, he set himself to console him.  It was notorious that the Salon had refused pictures which were afterwards famous; it was the first time Philip had sent, and he must expect a rebuff; Flanagan’s success was explicable, his picture was showy and superficial:  it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would see merit in.  Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that Lawson should think him capable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a calamity and would not realise that his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of his powers.