Constance had to summon him twice from art to nourishment. He ate with rapidity, frequently regarding the picture with half-shut, searching eyes. When he had finished, he refilled his glass with water, and put it next to his sketching-block.
“You surely aren’t thinking of beginning to paint at this time of night!” Constance exclaimed, astonished.
“Oh YES, mother!” he fretfully appealed. “It’s not late.”
Another positive ordinance of his father’s had been that there should be nothing after supper except bed. Nine o’clock was the latest permissible moment for going to bed. It was now less than a quarter to.
“It only wants twelve minutes to nine,” Constance pointed out.
“Well, what if it does?”
“Now, Cyril,” she said, “I do hope you are going to be a good boy, and not cause your mother anxiety.”
But she said it too kindly.
He said sullenly: “I do think you might let me finish it. I’ve begun it. It won’t take me long.”
She made the mistake of leaving the main point. “How can you possibly choose your colours properly by gas-light?” she said.