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.
"That's all," he said presently, with a nervous laugh.
Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.
"You have very little private means?" he asked at last.
"Very little," answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his heart. "Not enough to live on."
"There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means of livelihood.
I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money.
They are hypocrites or fools.
Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five.
Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off.
The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn.
You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist.
They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh.
They do not know how mean it makes you.
It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer.
It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent.
I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art."
Philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown.
"I'm afraid that sounds as if you didn't think I had much chance."
Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"You have a certain manual dexterity.
With hard work and perseverance there is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent painter.
You would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who painted as well.
I see no talent in anything you have shown me.