“Now, what d’you say to starting on my portrait this morning?” Philip put down the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve given up painting,” he said.

“Why?” asked his uncle in astonishment.

“I don’t think there’s much object in being a second-rate painter, and I came to the conclusion that I should never be anything else.”

“You surprise me.  Before you went to Paris you were quite certain that you were a genius.”

“I was mistaken,” said Philip.

“I should have thought now you’d taken up a profession you’d have the pride to stick to it.  It seems to me that what you lack is perseverance.”

Philip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how truly heroic his determination was.

“‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’” proceeded the clergyman.  Philip hated that proverb above all, and it seemed to him perfectly meaningless.  His uncle had repeated it often during the arguments which had preceded his departure from business.  Apparently it recalled that occasion to his guardian.

“You’re no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of settling down.  First you insist on becoming a chartered accountant, and then you get tired of that and you want to become a painter.  And now if you please you change your mind again.  It points to...”

He hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character exactly it indicated, and Philip finished the sentence.

“Irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack of determination.”

The Vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was laughing at him.  Philip’s face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes which irritated him.  Philip should really be getting more serious.  He felt it right to give him a rap over the knuckles.

“Your money matters have nothing to do with me now.  You’re your own master; but I think you should remember that your money won’t last for ever, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn’t exactly make it easier for you to earn your living.”

Philip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his first thought was to say something about his club-foot.  His estimate of the human race was determined by the fact that scarcely anyone failed to resist the temptation.  But he had trained himself not to show any sign that the reminder wounded him.  He had even acquired control over the blushing which in his boyhood had been one of his torments.

“As you justly remark,” he answered, “my money matters have nothing to do with you and I am my own master.”

“At all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I was justified in my opposition when you made up your mind to become an art-student.”

“I don’t know so much about that.  I daresay one profits more by the mistakes one makes off one’s own bat than by doing the right thing on somebody’s else advice.  I’ve had my fling, and I don’t mind settling down now.”