Phil was already stripped to the waist, facing the great window in full light. At his feet the confused mass of students was hushed—they stood in a circle around him. He heard their approving murmurs as they admired his thoroughbred muscles, his broad shoulders, the nervous slenderness of his waist.
“Bravo, l’Américain! There’s a man who’s built! You’d say he was an antique—c’est un costeau—he’ll be a great boy! I wouldn’t want him to punch me—he’s a good fellow, too! Enough! enough! Dress yourself, Philidor! A Ban for Philidor!”
“Pan! pan! pan! pan! pan!
Pan! pan!”
Thus Phil made acquaintance with the intoxication of glory.
Profiting by the moment of silence, a grave voice arose.
“The welcome!”
Phil, over the heads, saw amid the smoke a bearded face under a great bald forehead.
“Socrate has just come in,” a pupil said to Phil. “Socrate, an astonishing man—painter-poet!”