Scull (the artist). Pray, Madam, may I venture to ask if you paint?
Miss C. You are a very impudent fellow, to ask a gentle—woman if she paints. Do I look as if I painted?
Scull. I beg a million pardons, Ma’am, but as I paint myself ...
Miss C. You paint precious badly then, for you’re as yellow as a cowslip!
Cramp. [Aside.] Is the woman intoxicated or insane?
Scull. I think—I imagine that there is a little misapprehension, Ma’am, on your part. My vocation is that of an artist.
Nell. O Miss Cob, you must see his sketches.
Scull. You see, Ma’am, there is a new work to come out at Christmas, which is to be entitled,—The Mouse on the Mantelpiece. The letterpress is in very able hands,—a very pretty little fairy-tale for grown-up children,—that’s all the rage now, you know, in this enlightened age. But the illustrations will be the great thing. A steel-plate frontispiece, of course, in which will be introduced a number of winged mice in a variety of positions,—a very clever thing, I can assure you; and then wood-cuts,—I have the honour of being intrusted with the designs for them. We are to have a different illustration for the top of every column.
Nell. That will no doubt be capital.