Philip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he lunched at a little restaurant in the Rue d’Odessa, and he hurried his own meal so that he could go and wait outside till the painter came out.  Philip walked up and down the crowded street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet walking, with bent head, towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he forced himself to go up to him.

“Pardon, monsieur, I should like to speak to you for one moment.”

Foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile a greeting.

“Speak,” he said.

“I’ve been working here nearly two years now under you.  I wanted to ask you to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue.”

Philip’s voice was trembling a little.  Foinet walked on without looking up.  Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m very poor.  If I have no talent I would sooner do something else.”

“Don’t you know if you have talent?”

“All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them are mistaken.”

Foinet’s bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he asked: 

“Do you live near here?”

Philip told him where his studio was.  Foinet turned round.

“Let us go there?  You shall show me your work.”

“Now?” cried Philip.

“Why not?”

Philip had nothing to say.  He walked silently by the master’s side.  He felt horribly sick.  It had never struck him that Foinet would wish to see his things there and then; he meant, so that he might have time to prepare himself, to ask him if he would mind coming at some future date or whether he might bring them to Foinet’s studio.  He was trembling with anxiety.  In his heart he hoped that Foinet would look at his picture, and that rare smile would come into his face, and he would shake Philip’s hand and say:  “Pas mal.  Go on, my lad.  You have talent, real talent.”  Philip’s heart swelled at the thought.  It was such a relief, such a joy!  Now he could go on with courage; and what did hardship matter, privation, and disappointment, if he arrived at last?  He had worked very hard, it would be too cruel if all that industry were futile.  And then with a start he remembered that he had heard Fanny Price say just that.  They arrived at the house, and Philip was seized with fear.  If he had dared he would have asked Foinet to go away.  He did not want to know the truth.  They went in and the concierge handed him a letter as they passed.  He glanced at the envelope and recognised his uncle’s handwriting.  Foinet followed him up the stairs.  Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and the silence got on his nerves.  The professor sat down; and Philip without a word placed before him the picture which the Salon had rejected; Foinet nodded but did not speak; then Philip showed him the two portraits he had made of Ruth Chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted at Moret, and a number of sketches.