Everitt said in the same tone; “especially studied as you will study them. What a fool you are, Jack, to fling away your chances!”

“Turn and turn about,” said Jack. “It’s a heavenly day, and you’ve had your go at it. I’m off.”

He marched away, stopped at the door, scrawled a spirited charcoal caricature of Everitt on a spare board, ducked to avoid a mahl-stick which was promptly flung at his head, and whistled himself out of hearing.

“Pont-aven,” reflected Everitt. But somehow the notion of the little fishing-village, with its colony of artists, its wealth of models, its picturesque points, its wind-tossed seas, had lost a charm which the day before had seemed, irresistible. It might be good for Jack, it might not. He had that talent for idleness which can extract it under almost any pressure of circumstances. It was exceedingly likely that he would succeed in amusing himself very well at Pont-aven—probably learn to handle a boat like a native, and all the while avoid steady work with all his present ingenuity. In that case, there was not much use in going. Of his yesterday’s wish to be off on his own account, of his sickening over his Saturdays, of his general impatience with London—Everitt remembered nothing. It seemed to him, on the contrary, that few places were so good to live in, and he hoped that Mary Marchmont might come again on Saturday. Then he looked round upon his walls with dissatisfaction. There were beautiful and costly things hanging about in finely harmonised colours, rich curtains, ancient rugs, and Arabic lamps; there were choice pictures, and two or three admirable bronzes from a neighbouring studio; but it seemed to him that, in spite of the value of these things and their artistic beauty, the place had no touch of the charm which belonged to the little room in which he had found himself that morning—a room which was so simple, so unassuming, and so cheerful!

In short, it was evident that he had received an impression.

This was all very well, but it was equally evident that he could not have produced one, except in the character of a ruffian; and that, moreover, he had himself cut away the ground from under his feet. It is true he did not get so far as to admit that this gave him more than a general reason for annoyance, but he did feel that a good-natured impulse had placed him in a hateful position from which he could not even now retire.

Then his model arrived, and he flung himself into his painting, and kept the other subject out of his head, 

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