Chapter 52

第五十二章

菲利普第二天就赶回布莱克斯泰勃。自母亲去世之后，他还从未失掉过任何至亲好友。伯母的溘然辞世，不仅使他感到震惊，而且还使他心头充满一股无名的恐惧：他有生以来第一回感觉到自己最终也难逃一死。他无法想象，他大伯离开了那位爱他、伺候他四十年如一日的贤内助将如何生活下去。他料想大伯定然是悲恸欲绝，人整个儿垮掉了。他害怕这服丧期间的第一次见面，他知道，自己在这种场合说不出句把起作用的话来。他暗自念叨着几段得体的吊慰之同。

菲利普从边门进了牧师公馆，径直来到餐室。威廉大伯正在看报。

"火车误点了，"他抬起头说。

菲利普原准备声泪俱下地一泄自己的感情，哪知接待场面竟是这般平淡无奇，倒不免吃了一惊。大伯情绪压抑，不过倒还镇静，他把报纸递给菲利普。

"《布莱克斯泰勃时报》有一小段关于她的文章，写得很不错的，"他说。

菲利普机械地接过来看了。

"想上楼见她一面吗？"

菲利普点点头。伯侄俩一起上了楼。路易莎伯母躺在大床中央，遗体四周簇拥着鲜花。

"请为她祈祷吧，"牧师说。

牧师屈膝下跪，菲利普也跟着跪下，他知道牧师是希望他这么做的。菲利普端详着那张形容枯槁的瘦脸，心里只有一种感触：一生年华竞这样白白虚度了！少顷，凯里先生于咳一声，站起身，指指床脚边的一只花圈。

"那是乡绅老爷送来的，"他说话的嗓门挺低，仿佛这会儿是在教堂里做礼拜似的。但是，他那口气让人感到，身为牧师的凯里先生，此刻颇得其所。"茶点大概已经好了。"

他们下楼回到餐室。餐室里百叶窗下着，气氛显得有点冷清。牧师坐在桌端他老伴生前的专座上，礼数周全地斟茶敬点心。菲利普心里暗暗嘀咕，像现在这种场合，他俩理应什么食物也吞咽不下的呢，可是他一转眼，发现大伯的食欲丝毫不受影响，于是他也像平时那样津津有味地大嚼起来。有一阵子，伯侄俩谁也不吱声。菲利普专心对付着一块精美可口的蛋糕，可脸上却露出一副哀容，他觉得这样才说得过去。

"同我当副牧师的那阵子比起来，世风大不相同罗，"不一会儿牧师开口了。"我年轻的时候，吊丧的人总能拿到一副黑手套和一块蒙在礼帽上的黑绸。可怜的路易莎常把黑绸拿来做衣服。她总说，参加十二回葬礼就可以到手一件新衣裙。"

然后，他告诉菲利普有哪些人送了花圈，说现在已收到二十四只，佛尔尼镇的牧师老婆罗林森太太过世的时候，曾经收到过三十二只花圈。不过，明天还会有好多花圈送来。送丧的行列要到十一点才从牧师公馆出发，他们肯定能轻取罗林森太太。路易莎向来讨厌罗林森太太。

"我将亲自主持葬礼。我答应过路易莎，安葬她的事儿绝不让别人插手。"

当牧师拿起第二块蛋糕时，菲利普朝他投去不满的目光。在这种场合竟要吃两块蛋糕，他不能不认为他大伯过于贪恋口腹之欲了。

"玛丽·安做的蛋糕，真是没说的。我怕以后别人再也做不出这么出色的蛋糕。"

"她不打算走吧？"菲利普吃惊地喊道。

从菲利普能记事的时候起，玛丽·安就一直待在牧师家里。她从未忘记过菲利普的生日，到时候总要送他件把小玩意儿，尽管礼物很不像样，情意可重呢。菲利普打心眼里喜欢她。

"不，她要走的，"凯里先生回答，"我想，让个大姑娘留在这儿欠妥当吧。"

"我的老天，她肯定有四十多啦。"

"是啊，我知道她有这把岁数了。不过，她近来有点惹人讨厌，管得实在太宽啦。我想这正是打发她走的好机会。"

"这种机会以后倒是不会再有了呢，"菲利普说。

菲利普掏出烟来，但他大伯不让他点火。

"行完葬礼后再拍吧，菲利普，"他温和地说。

"好吧，"菲利普说。

"只要你可怜的路易莎伯母还在楼上，在这屋子里抽烟，总不太得体吧。"

葬礼结束后，银行经理兼教会执事乔赛亚·格雷夫斯又回转牧师公馆进餐。百叶窗拉开了，不知怎的，菲利普身不由己地生出一种如释重负之感。遗体停放在屋于里，使他感到颇不自在。这位可怜的妇人生前堪称善良、温和的化身，然而，当她身躯冰凉、直挺挺僵硬地躺在楼上卧室卫，却似乎成了一股能左右活人的邪恶力量。这个念头使菲利普不胜惊骇。

有一两分钟光景，餐室里只剩他和教会执事两个人。

"希望您能留下来陪您大伯多住几天，"他说。"我想，眼下不该撇下他孤老头子一个人。"

"我还没有什么明确的打算，"菲利普回答说，"如果他要我留下来，我是很乐意尽这份孝心的。"

进餐时，教会执事为了给那位不幸丧偶的丈夫排解哀思，谈起了布莱克斯泰勃最近发生的一起失火事件，这场火灾烧毁了美以美会教堂的部分建筑。

"听说他们没有保过火险，"他说，脸上露出一丝浅笑。

"有没有保火险还不是一个样，"牧师说。"反正到时候重建教堂，还不是需要多少就能募集到多少。非国教的教徒们总是很乐意解囊捐助的。"

"我看到霍尔登也送了花圈。"

霍尔登是当地的非国教派牧师。凯里先生看在耶稣份上--耶稣正是为了拯救他们双方而慷慨捐躯的嘛--在街上常同他颔首致意，但没问他说过一句话。

"我想这一回出足风头了，"他说。"一共有四十一只花圈。您送来的那只花圈漂亮极啦，我和菲利普都很喜欢。"

"算不上什么，"银行家说。

其实，他也很得意，注意到自己送的花圈比谁都大，看上去好不气派。他们议论起参加葬礼的人。由于举行葬礼，镇上有些商店甚至都未开门营业。教会执事从口袋里掏出一张通告，上面印着广兹因参加凯里太太的葬礼，本店于下午一时前暂停营业。"

"这可是我的主意哪，"他说。

"他们这份情意我领受了，"牧师说，"可怜的路易莎要是在天有灵也会心生感激的。"

菲利普只顾自己吃饭。玛丽·安把那天当成主日对待，所以，他们就吃上了烤鸡和鹅莓馅饼。

"你大概还没有考虑过墓碑的事吧？"教会执事说。

"不，我考虑过了，我打算搞个朴素大方的石头十字架。路易莎向来反对讲排场。""

"搞个十字架倒是最合适不过的了。要是你正在考虑碑文，你觉得这句经文如何：留在基督身边，岂不更有福分？"

牧师嚼起了嘴。这执事简直像俾斯麦，什么事都想由他来作主！他不喜欢那句经文。这似乎是有意在往自己脸上抹灰。

"我想那段经文不妥吧。我倒更喜欢这一句：主赐予的，主已取走。"

"噢，你喜欢这个！我总觉得这一句似乎少了点感情。

牧师尖酸地回敬了一句，而格雷夫斯先生答话时的口吻，在那位鳏夫听来又嫌过于傲慢，简直不知分寸。要是他这个做丈夫的还不能为亡妻的墓碑选择经文，那成何体统！经过一段冷场之后，他们把话题转到教区事务上去了。菲利普跑到花园里去抽烟斗。他在长凳上坐下，蓦地歇斯底里地大笑起来。

几天以后，牧师表示希望菲利普能在布莱克斯泰勃再住几个星期。

"好的，我觉得这样安排很合乎我的心意，"菲利普说。

"我想叫你待到九月份再回巴黎去，不知行不行。"

菲利普没有回答。最近他经常想到富瓦内对他讲过的话，兀自拿不定主意，所以不愿多谈将来的事儿。假如他放弃学美术，自然不失为上。策，因为他有自知之明，深信自己在这方面不可能超群出众。不幸的是，似乎只有他一个人才这么想，别人会以为他是知难而退，认输了，而他就是不肯服输。他生性倔强，明知自己在某方面不见得有天赋，却偏要和命运拼搏一番，非在这方面搞出点名堂不可。他决不愿让自己成为朋友们的笑柄。由于这种个性，他本来很可能一时还下不了放弃学画的决心，但是环境一换，他对事物的看法也突然跟着起了变化。他也像许多人那样，发现一过了英吉利海峡，原来似乎是至关重要的事情，霎时间变得微不足道了。原先觉得那么迷人、说什么也舍不得离开的生活，现在却显得索然无味。他对那儿的咖啡馆，对那些烹调手艺相当糟糕的饭馆，对他们那伙人的穷酸潦倒的生活方式，油然生出一股厌恶。他不在乎朋友们会对他有什么看法了。巧言善辩的克朗肖也罢，正经体面的奥特太太也罢，矫揉造作的露思·查利斯也罢，争吵不休的劳森和克拉顿也罢，所有这些人，菲利普统统感到厌恶。他写信给劳森，麻烦他把留在巴黎的行李物品全寄来。过了一星期，东西来了。菲利普把帆布包解开，发现自己竟能毫无感触地定睛打量自己的画。他注意到了这一事实，觉得很有趣。他大伯倒急不可待地想看看他的画。想当初，牧师激烈反对菲利普去巴黎，如今木已成舟，他倒无所谓了。牧师对巴黎学生的学习生活很感兴趣，一个劲儿问这问那，想打听这方面的情况。事实上，他因为侄儿成了画家而颇有几分自豪。当有人来作客，牧师总寻方设法想逗菲利普开腔。菲利普拿给他看的那几张画模特儿的习作，牧师看了又看，兴致才浓咧。菲利普把自己画的那幅米格尔·阿胡里亚头像放在牧师面前。

"你干吗要画他呢？"凯里先生问。

"噢，我需要个模特儿练练笔。他的头型使我感兴趣。"

"我说啊，反正你在这儿闲着没事，干吗不给我画个像呢？"

"您坐着让人画像，会感到腻烦的。"

"我想我会喜欢的吧。"

"咱们瞧着办吧。"

菲利普被大伯的虚荣心给逗乐了。显然，他巴不得菲利普能给他画幅像。有得而无所失的机会，可不能白白放跑了。接下来的两三天，他不时有所暗示。他责怪菲利普太懒，老问他什么时候可以动手工作。后来，他逢人便说菲利普要给自己画像了。最后，等来了一个下雨天，吃过早饭，凯里先生对菲利普说：

"嗯，今天上午，你就动手给我画像吧，你说呢？"

菲利普搁下手里的书，身子往椅背上一靠。

"我已经放弃画画了，"他说。

"为什么？"他大伯吃惊地问。

"我认为当个二流画家没多大意思，而我看准了自己不会有更大的成就。"

"你真叫我吃惊。你去巴黎之前，不是斩钉截铁地说自己是个天才来着。"

"那时候我没自知之明，菲菲利普说。

"我原以为你选定了哪一行，就会有点骨气一于到底的呢。现在看来你这个人见异思迁，就是没个长性。"

菲利普不免有点恼火，大伯竟然一点儿不明白他这份决心有多了不起，凝聚了多大的勇气。

"滚石不长苔藓，"牧师继续说。菲利普最讨厌这句谚语，因为在他看来，这条谚语毫无意义。早在菲利普离开会计事务所之前，大伯同他争论时就动辄搬出这句谚语来训人。现在，他的监护人显然又想起了那时的情景。

"如今你已不是个孩子，也该考虑自己的安身立命之所了。最初你执意要当会计师，后来觉得腻了，又想当画家，可现在心血来潮又要变卦这说明你这个人……"

他迟疑了一下，想考虑这究竟说明了性格上的哪些缺陷，却被菲利普接过话茬，一口气替他把话讲完。

"优柔寡断、软弱无能、缺乏远见、没有决断力。"

牧师倏地抬起头，朝侄儿扫了一眼，看看他是不是在嘲弄自己。菲利普的脸挺一本正经，可他那双眸子却在一闪一闪，惹得牧师大为恼火。菲利普不该这么玩世不恭。牧师觉得应该好好训侄儿一顿才是。

"今后，我不再过问你金钱方面的事儿，你可以自己作主了。不过，我还是想提醒你一句，你的钱并不是多得花不完的，再说你还不幸身患残疾，要养活自己肯定不是件容易的事。"

菲利普现在明白了，不论是谁，只要一同他发火，第一个念头就要提一下他的跛足。而他对整个人类的看法正是由下面这一事实所决的：几乎没人能抵制住诱惑，不去触及人家的痛处。好在菲利普现在练多了，即使有人当面提到他的残疾，也能照样不露声色。菲利普小时常为自己动辄脸红而深深苦恼，而现在就连这一点他也能控制自如了。

"你倒说句公道话，当初你执意要去学画，我反对你没有反对错吧不管怎么说，你这点总得承认罗。"

"这一点我可说不清楚。我想，一个人与其在别人指点下规规矩矩行事，还不如让他自己去闯闯，出点差错，反能获得更多的教益。反正我已放荡过一阵子。现在我不反对找个职业安顿下来。"

"干哪一行呢？"

菲利普对这个问题毫无准备，事实上，他连主意也没最后拿定。他脑子里盘算过十来种职业。

"对你来说，最合适的莫过于继承父业，当一名医生。"

"好不奇怪，我也正是这么打算的呢。"

在这么多的职业中，菲利普所以会想到行医这一行，主要是因为医生这个职业可以让人享受到更多的个人自由，而他过去蹲办公室的那段生活经历，也使他决心不再干任何与办公室沾边的差事。可他刚才对牧师的回答，几乎是无意识脱口而出的，纯粹是一种随机应变的巧答。他以这种偶然方式下定了决心，自己也感到有点好玩。他当场就决定于秋季进他父亲曾念过书的医院。

"这么说来，你在巴黎的那两年就算自丢了？"

"这我可说不上来。这两年我过得很快活，而且还学到了一两件本事。"

"什么本事？"

菲利普沉吟片刻，他接下来所作的回答，听起来倒也不无几分撩拨人的意味。

"我学会了看手，过去我从来没有看过。我还学会了如何借天空作背景来观察房屋和树木，而不是孤零零地观察房屋和树木。我还懂得了影子并不是黑色的，而是有颜色的。"

"我想你自以为很聪明吧，可我认为你满口轻狂，好蠢。"

 

Next day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his mother he had never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt’s death shocked him and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the first time his own mortality. He could not realise what life would be for his uncle without the constant companionship of the woman who had loved and tended him for forty years. He expected to find him broken down with hopeless grief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say nothing which would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a number of apposite speeches.

He entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the dining-room. Uncle William was reading the paper.

‘Your train was late,’ he said, looking up.

Philip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the matter-of-fact reception startled him. His uncle, subdued but calm, handed him the paper.

‘There’s a very nice little paragraph about her in The Blackstable Times,’ he said.

Philip read it mechanically.

‘Would you like to come up and see her?’

Philip nodded and together they walked upstairs. Aunt Louisa was lying in the middle of the large bed, with flowers all round her.

‘Would you like to say a short prayer?’ said the Vicar.

He sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him Philip followed his example. He looked at the little shrivelled face. He was only conscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! In a minute Mr. Carey gave a cough, and stood up. He pointed to a wreath at the foot of the bed.

‘That’s from the Squire,’ he said. He spoke in a low voice as though he were in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself quite at home. ‘I expect tea is ready.’

They went down again to the dining-room. The drawn blinds gave a lugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of the table at which his wife had always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony. Philip could not help feeling that neither of them should have been able to eat anything, but when he saw that his uncle’s appetite was unimpaired he fell to with his usual heartiness. They did not speak for a while. Philip set himself to eat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was decent.

‘Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate,’ said the Vicar presently. ‘In my young days the mourners used always to be given a pair of black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats. Poor Louisa used to make the silk into dresses. She always said that twelve funerals gave her a new dress.’

Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of them already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had died she had had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day; the funeral would start at eleven o’clock from the vicarage, and they should beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily. Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson.

‘I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would never let anyone else bury her.’

Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece of cake. Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy.

‘Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I’m afraid no one else will make such good ones.’

‘She’s not going?’ cried Philip, with astonishment.

Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. She never forgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle, absurd but touching. He had a real affection for her.

‘Yes,’ answered Mr. Carey. ‘I didn’t think it would do to have a single woman in the house.’

‘But, good heavens, she must be over forty.’

‘Yes, I think she is. But she’s been rather troublesome lately, she’s been inclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a very good opportunity to give her notice.’

‘It’s certainly one which isn’t likely to recur,’ said Philip.

He took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it.

‘Not till after the funeral, Philip,’ he said gently.

‘All right,’ said Philip.

‘It wouldn’t be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as your poor Aunt Louisa is upstairs.’

Josiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to dinner at the vicarage after the funeral. The blinds had been drawn up, and Philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. The body in the house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman had been all that was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room, cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful influence. The thought horrified Philip.

He found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with the churchwarden.

‘I hope you’ll be able to stay with your uncle a while,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he ought to be left alone just yet.’

‘I haven’t made any plans,’ answered Philip. ‘if he wants me I shall be very pleased to stay.’

By way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during dinner talked of a recent fire at Blackstable which had partly destroyed the Wesleyan chapel.

‘I hear they weren’t insured,’ he said, with a little smile.

‘That won’t make any difference,’ said the Vicar. ‘They’ll get as much money as they want to rebuild. Chapel people are always ready to give money.’

‘I see that Holden sent a wreath.’

Holden was the dissenting minister, and, though for Christ’s sake who died for both of them, Mr. Carey nodded to him in the street, he did not speak to him.

‘I think it was very pushing,’ he remarked. ‘There were forty-one wreaths. Yours was beautiful. Philip and I admired it very much.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said the banker.

He had noticed with satisfaction that it was larger than anyone’s else. It had looked very well. They began to discuss the people who attended the funeral. Shops had been closed for it, and the churchwarden took out of his pocket the notice which had been printed: Owing to the funeral of Mrs. Carey this establishment will not be opened till one o’clock.’

‘It was my idea,’ he said.

‘I think it was very nice of them to close,’ said the Vicar. ‘Poor Louisa would have appreciated that.’

Philip ate his dinner. Mary Ann had treated the day as Sunday, and they had roast chicken and a gooseberry tart.

‘I suppose you haven’t thought about a tombstone yet?’ said the churchwarden.

‘Yes, I have. I thought of a plain stone cross. Louisa was always against ostentation.’

‘I don’t think one can do much better than a cross. If you’re thinking of a text, what do you say to: With Christ, which is far better?’

The Vicar pursed his lips. It was just like Bismarck to try and settle everything himself. He did not like that text; it seemed to cast an aspersion on himself.

‘I don’t think I should put that. I much prefer: The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away.’

‘Oh, do you? That always seems to me a little indifferent.’

The Vicar answered with some acidity, and Mr. Graves replied in a tone which the widower thought too authoritative for the occasion. Things were going rather far if he could not choose his own text for his own wife’s tombstone. There was a pause, and then the conversation drifted to parish matters. Philip went into the garden to smoke his pipe. He sat on a bench, and suddenly began to laugh hysterically.

A few days later his uncle expressed the hope that he would spend the next few weeks at Blackstable.

‘Yes, that will suit me very well,’ said Philip.

‘I suppose it’ll do if you go back to Paris in September.’

Philip did not reply. He had thought much of what Foinet said to him, but he was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future. There would be something fine in giving up art because he was convinced that he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only to himself: to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want to confess that he was beaten. He was an obstinate fellow, and the suspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclined to force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in that direction. He could not bear that his friends should laugh at him. This might have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoning the study of painting, but the different environment made him on a sudden see things differently. Like many another he discovered that crossing the Channel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile. The life which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it now seemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafes, the restaurants with their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived. He did not care any more what his friends thought about him: Cronshaw with his rhetoric, Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her affectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion from them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all his belongings. A week later they arrived. When he unpacked his canvases he found himself able to examine his work without emotion. He noticed the fact with interest. His uncle was anxious to see his pictures. Though he had so greatly disapproved of Philip’s desire to go to Paris, he accepted the situation now with equanimity. He was interested in the life of students and constantly put Philip questions about it. He was in fact a little proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were present made attempts to draw him out. He looked eagerly at the studies of models which Philip showed him. Philip set before him his portrait of Miguel Ajuria.

‘Why did you paint him?’ asked Mr. Carey.

‘Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me.’

‘As you haven’t got anything to do here I wonder you don’t paint me.’

‘It would bore you to sit.’

‘I think I should like it.’

‘We must see about it.’

Philip was amused at his uncle’s vanity. It was clear that he was dying to have his portrait painted. To get something for nothing was a chance not to be missed. For two or three days he threw out little hints. He reproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling everyone he met that Philip was going to paint him. At last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said to Philip:

‘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.’

‘What at?’

Philip was not prepared for the question, since in fact he had not made up his mind. He had thought of a dozen callings.

‘The most suitable thing you could do is to enter your father’s profession and become a doctor.’

‘Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend.’

He had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly because it was an occupation which seemed to give a good deal of personal freedom, and his experience of life in an office had made him determine never to have anything more to do with one; his answer to the Vicar slipped out almost unawares, because it was in the nature of a repartee. It amused him to make up his mind in that accidental way, and he resolved then and there to enter his father’s old hospital in the autumn.

‘Then your two years in Paris may be regarded as so much wasted time?’

‘I don’t know about that. I had a very jolly two years, and I learned one or two useful things.’

‘What?’

Philip reflected for an instant, and his answer was not devoid of a gentle desire to annoy.

‘I learned to look at hands, which I’d never looked at before. And instead of just looking at houses and trees I learned to look at houses and trees against the sky. And I learned also that shadows are not black but coloured.’

‘I suppose you think you’re very clever. I think your flippancy is quite inane.’