“I’d like to rest my feet,” admitted Mrs. Johns; “the leather has begun to draw.” So Wynne and Vincent entered the next gallery together. “My people are all right, you know,” said Vincent; “but they are a bit off in Paris, you know.” “Oh, really.” “Yes. _You_ know! Isn’t there anything a bit more lively we can see? I don’t think a lot of these Old Masters—damned if I do.” Wynne had to bear in mind that he was the servant of these people, and accordingly he replied, civilly enough: “Perhaps you’d like the more modern school better.” “I thought French painting was a bit livelier, but it seems about as dud as the Liverpool Art Gallery. Aren’t there any more of those figure pictures?” “Nudes?” “That what you call ’em?” “That is what they are called.” “Let’s have a look at some, anyway.” “We’ll go through here, then, and I’ll show you ‘La Source.’ It is considered remarkable flesh painting, although I don’t care for it very particularly.” As they turned to the modern side, Vincent dropped his voice, and said: “Pretty hot, Paris, isn’t it?” “I’ve never been here in the summer,” replied Wynne, an answer which made his companion laugh very heartily. “You are not giving much away, are you?” he mocked. “There,” said Wynne; “this is ‘La Source.’” He halted before Ingres’ masterpiece—the slim figure of a naked girl, a tilted pitcher on her shoulder, from which flows a fall of greeny-white water. “Remarkable, perhaps, but not art.” “No,” said Vincent, “I don’t like it either, you know. I see what you mean—it isn’t spicy enough, is it?” “Spicy?” “Yes—you know. Look here, I was wanting a chance to speak to you alone. I’ve got a bit of money.” “You are more fortunate than I.” “I don’t mind you having a bit of it.” “Oh.” “The mater and pater get to bed by 10 o’clock, and I could easily slip out after that.” “It ought not to be difficult.” “We could meet, I thought, and you could show me round a bit. See what I’m driving at?” “No. What _are_ you driving at?” “I want to see a bit of life, and you’re the chap to show it me.” And suddenly Wynne became very angry, so angry that his face went pink and white in turns. “What the hell do you mean?” he exploded. “Do you take me for a disorderly house tout?” “Shut up—don’t shout.” “You dirty, pimply— Good God!” “If you call me names you won’t get your money.” “Money!” cried Wynne. “D’you think I’d take money from any one who begat a thing like you. Clear out, get away, and tell your father, when next he thinks he’d like a son, to blow out his brains instead.” Thrusting his hands in his empty pockets, and tossing his head from side to side, Wynne stamped furiously from the gallery and down the steps to the courtyard below. It was two hours before he recovered an even temper, and then he surprised many passers-by by stopping in the middle of the Rue de Rivoli and shouting with laughter. “One up to my immortal soul,” he cried. “And now for Les Arles!”