Janet. It isn't. They know better than come to my front door. They know I won't have it.
(Exit, throwing off apron.)
(Carve examines the portrait of his wife with evident pleasure.)
Carve. (To himself.) That 'ud make 'em sit up in Bond Street. (Laughs grimly.)
(Voices off. Re-enter Janet, followed by Ebag carrying a picture.)
Janet. Well, it never rains but it pours. Here's a gentleman in a motor car wants to know if you've got any pictures for sale. (She calmly conceals her apron.)
Ebag. (With diplomatic caution and much deference.) Good-morning.
Carve. (Whose entire demeanour has suddenly changed into hostility.) Good-morning.
Ebag. I've been buying some very delightful little things of yours from a man that calls himself a picture-dealer and frame-maker (ironically) in the High Street here. I persuaded him—not without difficulty—to give me your address. And I've ventured to
[104]call just to see if by chance you have anything for sale.