Pascoe. (Rising.) It occurs to me, my friend, that I'm listening to too much. But you're so persuasive.
Carve. It's such a pleasure to talk freely—for once in a way.
Pascoe. Freely—is the word.
Carve. Oh! He won't mind!
Pascoe. (In a peculiar tone.) It's quite possible!
(Enter Horning.)
Horning. (To Carve.) I say, it's just occurred to me, Mr. Carve hasn't been digging or gardening or anything, I suppose, and then taken cold after?
Carve. Digging? Oh no. He must have got a bad chill on the steamer. Why?
Horning. Nothing. Only his hands and finger-nails are so rough.
Carve. (After thinking.) Oh, I see! All artists are like that. Messing about with paints and acids and things. Look at my hands.