He would not be thrust aside like that. He knew himself to be worth a thousand Mitchells. Logan had said that Mitchell was rubbish, and not even in the eyes of a slip of a girl would Mendel have Mitchell set above himself. Not for one moment was it tolerable. He would keep Morrison to her promises and make her come to have her portrait painted, and he would find out what there was in her that made him remember her so distinctly and so clearly separate her from all other girls. Somehow the thought of her cooled the intoxication in which he had been left by Logan. She offered, perhaps, another way out of his present state of congestion and dissatisfaction. Very clearly she brought back to his mind the thrilling delight with which he had worked as a boy, and that was true, truer than anything else he had ever known. . . . Ah! If he could only get back to that, with all the tricks and cunning he had learned. He would get back to it some day, but he must fight for it; with Logan he would learn how to fight. Logan would lay his immense store of knowledge before him, and give him books to read, and teach him how to be so easy and familiar with ideas, which at present only frothed in his mind like waves thinning themselves out on the sea-shore. He wrote an impassioned and insolent letter to Morrison commanding her presence at his studio and informing her that he was worth a thousand of her ordinary associates, and that she had hurt him, and that girls ought not to hurt men of acknowledged talent. This letter cost him a great deal of pain and time, because he was careful not to make any slip in spelling or grammar. It was more a manifesto than a letter, and he wished to do nothing to impair its dignity. And all the time he was puzzled to know why he should care about her at all. He was prepared to throw everything--his success, the Detmold, his friends--to the winds to follow Logan, but Morrison he could not throw away. He decided at last not to send the letter but to go himself, and he went to the Detmold just as the light was fading and he knew she would be leaving. She had gone already, but he met Clowes, who, he knew, lived with her. He pounced on her and said:-- "You must come to tea with me." "I'm afraid I . . ." "You must! You must!" She saw he was very excited and she had heard stories of his bursting into tears when he was thwarted. In some alarm she consented to go with him. He led her to a teashop, a horrible place that smelt of dishwater and melted butter, made her sit at a table, and burst at once into a tirade:-- "You are Morrison's friend. Will you tell me why she has avoided me? She came to my studio once and she said she would come again. She sent me flowers for three weeks, but she has sent no more." "She--she is very forgetful," said Clowes, who was longing for tea but did not dare to tell him to turn to the waitress, who was hovering behind him. "But she nodded to me as if she had hardly met me before," said Mendel.