"Sorry, old chap," he said, smiling.
"Stop," I cried. "I like that curve of the nostril. It denotes the force of character which has made me what I am."
George went on ruthlessly.
"I want it to be good of you," he said simply. Half way through my third sitting George gave a cry and flung off his coat.
"What's the matter?" said I. "Something biting—?
"Talk, man," he said, seizing his palette. "Just talk. Don't mind how I answer. I'm going to paint. By Jove, how I'm going to paint!"
Clearly the fit was upon him. These artists! Not daring to disobey, I talked and talked. Heaven knows what I said. After an hour my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, but I talked on. And all the time George alternately bent his brows upon me, and hung himself at the canvas, uttering strange, smothered cries and oaths, but painting, painting.... At a quarter past two he laid down his palette and cried to me to descend. Stiffly I did so.
For a long moment I looked at the portrait. Then I turned to George and clapped him on the back.
"I think you're going to make a name," said I.
"That's right," he said. "And now give me a cigarette."