IRIS. Jack, you have been bad.
JACK. After all, darling, it’s only a mile by the short way, and it’s a jolly afternoon. There won’t be anything about it in the papers.
IRIS (shaking her head at him). Oh, Jack! (She sits on the arm of his chair) Jack, don’t you think it’s time we had a house of our own? This has been very jolly for a few months, but—you do want to get started on your work, don’t you?
JACK. Of course I do, sweetheart. Only, we can’t begin till we get the studio, can we?
IRIS. London’s full of studios, lazy one.
JACK. Yes, but you don’t realise how important it is to an artist to get the exact surroundings. Now [53]that we’ve found the studio in all London, and the man who’s in it happens to be leaving in six months, it’s absurd to go looking about for another. It’s simply a question of waiting.
IRIS. Six months?
JACK. Well, if we’re lucky, he might die suddenly.... You should read your Bible more. Moses, or somebody, said that no husband ought to do any work for a year after he’s married. I quite agree with him. (Playing with her hair) Did I ever tell you that I much prefer your hair to the stuff you see hanging in shop windows in Bond Street?
IRIS (softly). Do you?
JACK. It’s all fastened on quite naturally, isn’t it?