"Besides, the article is just," protested Stubbs. "We know what Lafont is, between ourselves; he's an excellent chap, but his poetry—save the mark!—would hardly impose on Clapham and Wandsworth. His manner's cheap enough, but his matter goes one cheaper; it's the sort of thing for which there should be no charge." Stubbs drained his glass.
Jack was blazing.
"I don't know what you mean by 'cheap,'" he cried; "but from reading that article, which I happen to have seen before, I should call it a jolly 'cheap' word. I don't set up to be a clever man. I only know what I like, and I like everything of Claude's that—that I can understand. But even if I didn't I should be sorry to go about saying so in his own house!"
"His own house!" exclaimed the Impressionist.
"We didn't know it was his," said Stubbs.
"What's mine is Claude's," replied Jack, colouring. "It was before I turned up, and it will be again when—whenever I peg out."
With that he was gone.
"Sounds suicidal," remarked Llewellyn.
"Or celibate," said Stubbs, replenishing his glass.
"Poor beast!" concluded the artist.