Phil, the Phil they had known as such a “seeker,” with so much personality, was knuckling down! He was turning bourgeois—he was going to have his medal! In other words, he was down on his knees to tickle the soles of the feet of the old bonzes of the Academy!
“That’s no artist! not what I call an artist!” Socrate went on. And it was plain from the fashion in which Socrate ordered another absinthe that he, at least, would never come to terms! Good old Poufaille was dumb with admiration.
“What a pity Phil’s not here!” he thought.
“‘Only put your soul into it!’”
A few days later he ran across Phil, who looked tired.
“You’re lost, you know; you’re in a bad way!” Poufaille said to him as soon as he saw him; and he added mysteriously: “You ought to go to see Socrate—such a wonderful man, mon cher!”
“Come on,” answered Phil, who wanted a walk.