He hailed a taxi.
"That's right, then." He turned to the driver. "Go to Richmond," he said, opening the door.
As it moved, he put his head out of the window.
"Mind you wear that hat, old boy."
The next morning I had my first sitting. It was a great success. There was much to say, and we talked furiously for three hours. And all the time I sat still upon the throne, and George painted. About his work he said little, but I gathered that he had begun to do well. He mentioned that he had had two or three commissions.
"I'm on that now," he said carelessly, during one of my rests. He was pointing to a canvas, which leaned—face inwards—against the wall. I walked across the studio, and turned it round. A girl's picture. A girl in a flowered dress and a shady hat, her slight shining legs crossed at the knee. Sitting square in the high-backed chair, he was painting her, one small hand on each of its rosewood arms. The face was most of all unfinished.
"You've got those legs well," said I, "And I like the dress. She looks rather lovely, as far as one can tell without seeing the face."
George laughed.
"She's all right," he said.
At the end of my second sitting George picked up a knife and began deliberately to scrape out all the work he had done that morning. I watched him, petrified with horror.