CHAPTER I
"Manon Lescaut," Carrington repeated. He did not show any particular enthusiasm.
"Yes, Manon Lescaut. I see the thing. It would be really superb."
"You don't mean to say, my dear boy, that you are falling into anecdote? You are not going to degrade your canvas with painted literature?"
Carrington's voice betrayed some concern, for he took a friendly interest in my career.
"The title—a mere label—suggests it. But nothing of the sort. I am going to paint a portrait of Manon—and of her ilk."
"A portrait?"
"Yes; the portrait of a type."
Carrington smoked on, stretched comfortably in a chair. His feet were on another chair, and the broad soles of his slippers so displayed implied ease and intimacy.