Philip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he lunched at a little restaurant in the Rue d’Odessa, and he hurried his own meal so that he could go and wait outside till the painter came out. Philip walked up and down the crowded street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet walking, with bent head, towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he forced himself to go up to him.
“Pardon, monsieur, I should like to speak to you for one moment.”
Foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile a greeting.
“Speak,” he said.
“I’ve been working here nearly two years now under you. I wanted to ask you to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue.”
Philip’s voice was trembling a little. Foinet walked on without looking up. Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something else.”
“Don’t you know if you have talent?”
“All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them are mistaken.”