IRIS (stopping beneath the picture with the unwilling JACK). Good-bye, Baby Broxopp!
(She blows a kiss to it and they go out. BROXOPP [44]goes over to his wife and sits on the sofa with her. She takes his hand.)
NANCY. Darling, do you mind very much?
BROXOPP. I wonder if Jack’s painting is ever going to come to anything.
NANCY. He must find that out for himself, mustn’t he? We can’t help him.
BROXOPP. Iris is a fine girl; I like a girl who tells the truth.
NANCY (smiling to herself). I don’t think you’d have liked her to write your advertisements.
BROXOPP (chuckling). Well done, Nancy. You’ve got me there.
NANCY. Say you liked me doing them.
BROXOPP (gravely). I liked you doing them. I’ve liked everything you’ve ever done for me.... All the same, Nancy, we were truthful. Artistically truthful. An artist is a man who knows what to leave out. Did I say that in Broxoppiana? (Remembering suddenly that there will never be another edition) Oh, well, it doesn’t matter now.