“And what about his wife and family?” asked Philip.

“Oh, he dropped them.  He left them to starve on their own account.”

“It sounds a pretty low-down thing to do.”

“Oh, my dear fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give up being an artist.  They’ve got nothing to do with one another.  You hear of men painting pot-boilers to keep an aged mother—­well, it shows they’re excellent sons, but it’s no excuse for bad work.  They’re only tradesmen.  An artist would let his mother go to the workhouse.  There’s a writer I know over here who told me that his wife died in childbirth.  He was in love with her and he was mad with grief, but as he sat at the bedside watching her die he found himself making mental notes of how she looked and what she said and the things he was feeling.  Gentlemanly, wasn’t it?”

“But is your friend a good painter?” asked Philip.

“No, not yet, he paints just like Pissarro.  He hasn’t found himself, but he’s got a sense of colour and a sense of decoration.  But that isn’t the question.  It’s the feeling, and that he’s got.  He’s behaved like a perfect cad to his wife and children, he’s always behaving like a perfect cad; the way he treats the people who’ve helped him—­and sometimes he’s been saved from starvation merely by the kindness of his friends—­is simply beastly.  He just happens to be a great artist.”

Philip pondered over the man who was willing to sacrifice everything, comfort, home, money, love, honour, duty, for the sake of getting on to canvas with paint the emotion which the world gave him.  It was magnificent, and yet his courage failed him.

Thinking of Cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not seen him for a week, and so, when Clutton left him, he wandered along to the cafe in which he was certain to find the writer.  During the first few months of his stay in Paris Philip had accepted as gospel all that Cronshaw said, but Philip had a practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theories which resulted in no action.  Cronshaw’s slim bundle of poetry did not seem a substantial result for a life which was sordid.  Philip could not wrench out of his nature the instincts of the middle-class from which he came; and the penury, the hack work which Cronshaw did to keep body and soul together, the monotony of existence between the slovenly attic and the cafe table, jarred with his respectability.  Cronshaw was astute enough to know that the young man disapproved of him, and he attacked his philistinism with an irony which was sometimes playful but often very keen.

“You’re a tradesman,” he told Philip, “you want to invest life in consols so that it shall bring you in a safe three per cent.  I’m a spendthrift, I run through my capital.  I shall spend my last penny with my last heartbeat.”

The metaphor irritated Philip, because it assumed for the speaker a romantic attitude and cast a slur upon the position which Philip instinctively felt had more to say for it than he could think of at the moment.