“I don’t see the use of reading the same thing over and over again,” said Philip.  “That’s only a laborious form of idleness.”

“But are you under the impression that you have so great a mind that you can understand the most profound writer at a first reading?”

“I don’t want to understand him, I’m not a critic.  I’m not interested in him for his sake but for mine.”

“Why d’you read then?”

“Partly for pleasure, because it’s a habit and I’m just as uncomfortable if I don’t read as if I don’t smoke, and partly to know myself.  When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for me, and it becomes part of me; I’ve got out of the book all that’s any use to me, and I can’t get anything more if I read it a dozen times.  You see, it seems to me, one’s like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are certain things that have a peculiar significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is there.”

Philip was not satisfied with his metaphor, but he did not know how else to explain a thing which he felt and yet was not clear about.

“You want to do things, you want to become things,” said Hayward, with a shrug of the shoulders.  “It’s so vulgar.”

Philip knew Hayward very well by now.  He was weak and vain, so vain that you had to be on the watch constantly not to hurt his feelings; he mingled idleness and idealism so that he could not separate them.  At Lawson’s studio one day he met a journalist, who was charmed by his conversation, and a week later the editor of a paper wrote to suggest that he should do some criticism for him.  For forty-eight hours Hayward lived in an agony of indecision.  He had talked of getting occupation of this sort so long that he had not the face to refuse outright, but the thought of doing anything filled him with panic.  At last he declined the offer and breathed freely.

“It would have interfered with my work,” he told Philip.

“What work?” asked Philip brutally.

“My inner life,” he answered.

Then he went on to say beautiful things about Amiel, the professor of Geneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which was never fulfilled; till at his death the reason of his failure and the excuse were at once manifest in the minute, wonderful journal which was found among his papers.  Hayward smiled enigmatically.

But Hayward could still talk delightfully about books; his taste was exquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had a constant interest in ideas, which made him an entertaining companion.  They meant nothing to him really, since they never had any effect on him; but he treated them as he might have pieces of china in an auction-room, handling them with pleasure in their shape and their glaze, pricing them in his mind; and then, putting them back into their case, thought of them no more.