"I say, I don't think you've got into very nice quarters," he said, surveying the walls.
"Best we can afford, old man. By and by we hope to change. I want to start painting again, and one must have a good light. Got a new idea in my mind."
"You won't take the trouble to copy that, anyhow," remarked Roy, pointing at a good-sized plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood on the mantelpiece. "I wouldn't keep the wretched thing there, if I were you."
"My dear boy, it's from no sort of devotion to the original, I assure you. But what's to be done? Our landlady is a flaring red-hot Bonapartist. Raved about him for an hour this morning to my wife,—didn't she, dear?"
"I told her politely that I should like him better if he would kindly allow us to go home," added Mrs. Curtis.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't suit her views, if we got rid of the Emperor, and put King George instead. Take care, Roy. Look out."
Roy was standing by the table, on which lay a little heap of wood-chips. Curtis always had something in hand,—either painting or moulding or carving. If no other occupation presented itself, he would content himself with whittling a piece of wood into scraps; and apparently this had been his last occupation. Roy took up a chip, aimed carefully at the bust, and flung it.
"Missed, by half an inch! I'll try again. That's right. Hit him fair and square on the nose."
Roy was in a wild mood, delighted to find some vent for his happiness, and not to be easily checked. He aimed chip after chip at that self-contained face of world-wide fame, sometimes hitting, sometimes missing. When for the third time he succeeded in touching the nose, he was hilariously delighted. "Bravo, bravo!" he cried. "Down with the old fellow! Á bas l'Empéreur!"
"Sh-h! Roy, be careful. You'll certainly get yourself into trouble."