don't know
what you're going to do, but if you're in the neighbourhood at any time
come in and see us."

Philip gave a little laugh.

"I'm afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of my heart
that I shall never set eyes on any of you again."

XXXIX

The Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme which
Philip laid before him. He had a great idea that one should stick to
whatever one had begun. Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress on
not changing one's mind.

"You chose to be an accountant of your own free will," he said.

"I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of getting up to
town. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing will induce me to go
back to it."

Mr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip's idea of being an
artist. He should not forget, they said, that his father and mother were
gentlefolk, and painting wasn't a serious profession; it was Bohemian,
disreputable, immoral. And then Paris!

"So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not allow you to
live in Paris," said the Vicar firmly.

It was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon flaunted
their vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more wicked.

"You've been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I should be
false to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if I
allowed you to expose yourself to such temptation."

"Well, I know I'm not a Christian and I'm beginning to doubt whether I'm
a gentleman," said Philip.

The dispute grew more violent. There was another year before Philip took
possession of his small inheritance, and during that time Mr. Carey
proposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the office. It
was clear to Philip that if he meant not to continue with accountancy he
must leave it while he could still get back half the money that had been
paid for his articles. The Vicar would not listen. Philip, losing all
reserve, said things to wound and irritate.

"You've got no right to waste my money," he said at last. "After all it's
my money, isn't it? I'm not a child. You can't prevent me from going to
Paris if I make up my mind to. You can't force me to go back to London."

"All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think fit."

"Well, I don't care, I've made up my mind to go to Paris. I shall sell my
clothes, and my books, and my father's jewellery."

Aunt Louisa sa