He took another great pull at his pot and laughed foolishly. His face was ruddy and his eyes glazed with drink.
“You were singing when I came in,” said Ned. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
The student sniggered, the cuisinière sniggered, the farmer waved a tolerant hand.
“You see?” said the musician. “We make no business here of any man’s convenience but our own. I shall sing if I want to.”
He twitched the strings with some loose defiance, and swerved into a little vacant amorous song.
“Does that please you?” he asked at the finish.
“It neither pleases nor disgusts me,” said Ned. “It is simply not worth considering.”
“You must not say that,” said the round-faced student.
Mr Murk turned upon him gravely.
“I am a foreigner, sir, as you see,” said he. “I come amongst you to enlarge my experience and to correct a certain insular habit of prejudice. To this end I use a sketch-book, and sometimes I paint portraits. I shall have the honour of depicting you as a starling.”