“Hang it all, Mary,” he burst out, “don't be so judicial. One must have some pleasure—I can't sit about this cottage all the time.”
“I don't think I've asked you to do that.”
“You haven't, but you seem to be implying the request now.”
She was chilled to silence, having no heart to reason him out of so unreasonable a defense.
“Well, anyway,” he said, flinging himself on the sofa, “here I am, so let's make the best of it. Tea ready?”
“It's just coming.”
“That's good. When are you coming up to see the picture? It's going to be the best I've done. I shall get Constantine to exhibit it and that stick of a Demeter together, and then the real people and the fools will both have something to admire.”
“You say this will be your best?” asked Mary, whom the phrase had stabbed.
“Well,” he said reflectively, lighting a cigarette, “perhaps not better than the Danaë in one sense—it hasn't as much feeling, but has more originality. Miss Berber is such an unusual type—she's quite an inspiration.”
“And I'm not, any more,” Mary could not help adding in a muffled voice.