“I suppose he sent the card,” said Philip.  “Let’s go and find him, he’s sure to be in front of his picture.”

This, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a corner, and Lawson was not far from it.  He looked a little lost, in his large soft hat and loose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had gathered for the private view.  He greeted Philip with enthusiasm, and with his usual volubility told him that he had come to live in London, Ruth Chalice was a hussy, he had taken a studio, Paris was played out, he had a commission for a portrait, and they’d better dine together and have a good old talk.  Philip reminded him of his acquaintance with Hayward, and was entertained to see that Lawson was slightly awed by Hayward’s elegant clothes and grand manner.  They sat upon him better than they had done in the shabby little studio which Lawson and Philip had shared.

At dinner Lawson went on with his news.  Flanagan had gone back to America.  Clutton had disappeared.  He had come to the conclusion that a man had no chance of doing anything so long as he was in contact with art and artists:  the only thing was to get right away.  To make the step easier he had quarrelled with all his friends in Paris.  He developed a talent for telling them home truths, which made them bear with fortitude his declaration that he had done with that city and was settling in Gerona, a little town in the north of Spain which had attracted him when he saw it from the train on his way to Barcelona.  He was living there now alone.

“I wonder if he’ll ever do any good,” said Philip.

He was interested in the human side of that struggle to express something which was so obscure in the man’s mind that he was become morbid and querulous.  Philip felt vaguely that he was himself in the same case, but with him it was the conduct of his life as a whole that perplexed him.  That was his means of self-expression, and what he must do with it was not clear.  But he had no time to continue with this train of thought, for Lawson poured out a frank recital of his affair with Ruth Chalice.  She had left him for a young student who had just come from England, and was behaving in a scandalous fashion.  Lawson really thought someone ought to step in and save the young man.  She would ruin him.  Philip gathered that Lawson’s chief grievance was that the rupture had come in the middle of a portrait he was painting.

“Women have no real feeling for art,” he said.  “They only pretend they have.”  But he finished philosophically enough:  “However, I got four portraits out of her, and I’m not sure if the last I was working on would ever have been a success.”

Philip envied the easy way in which the painter managed his love affairs.  He had passed eighteen months pleasantly enough, had got an excellent model for nothing, and had parted from her at the end with no great pang.

“And what about Cronshaw?” asked Philip.