“No; but he says the next great painter must come from England.”
“Pooh! Whistler!” said Thompson in a tone of vast superiority. “Nous sommes bien loin de ça.”
“Please don’t talk French,” said Mendel. “I don’t understand a word.”
“Whistler had good ideas,” continued Thompson. “It is a pity he was not a better artist.”
Mendel was beginning to feel bored. He did not understand this new painting for painting’s sake, and did not want to understand it. To change the subject he said:—
“I nearly brought Jessie Petrie with me.”
“I wish you had. She is a dear little girl, and I nearly sent for her the other day, but I’ve no use for the model now. It is perfectly futile trying to cram a living figure into a modern picture.”
“I don’t see why, if you can paint it.”
“Really,” said Thompson, “I don’t see what you have come to Paris for, if you haven’t come to learn something about painting. One wouldn’t expect you to understand Picasso straight off, but anyone who has handled paint ought to be able to grasp Van Gogh.”
“He is trying for the impossible,” grunted Mendel. “The important thing in art is art. I’ve come to Paris to have a good time.”