“Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking.” He looked at his watch. “It’s twelve. A la semaine prochaine, messieurs.”
Miss Price gathered up her things slowly. Philip waited behind after the others to say to her something consolatory. He could think of nothing but:
“I say, I’m awfully sorry. What a beast that man is!”
She turned on him savagely.
“Is that what you’re waiting about for? When I want your sympathy I’ll ask for it. Please get out of my way.”
She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of the shoulders, limped along to Gravier’s for luncheon.
“It served her right,” said Lawson, when Philip told him what had happened. “Ill-tempered slut.”
Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never went to the studio when Foinet was coming.
“I don’t want other people’s opinion of my work,” he said. “I know myself if it’s good or bad.”
“You mean you don’t want other people’s bad opinion of your work,” answered Clutton dryly.