“Yes. Nice picturesque interior, isn’t it? There were three children ill of scarlet fever in the room when Everitt painted it. He was only admitted on condition that he sat on the edge of the bed, and gave them their medicine at the proper hour. Long ago? Oh dear, no—not long. Everitt never sticks at anything which—”
Somebody began to speak to Everitt, and he lost the remainder. Presently Jack Hibbert drifted again into hearing—
“That? Oh yes, there’s a very remarkable story connected with that picture. A great deal in the girl’s face, as you say. Well, Everitt happened to have painted it from a model; he doesn’t always, you know. No, you’re quite right; we do our best things entirely out of our own heads; it secures originality. Just so. However, sometimes Everitt has to fall back on a model, and we heard afterwards that this one was in disguise; there’s was a hint that she was a duke’s daughter—”
“Oh, Mr Hibbert, how delightfully romantic! Do you mean to say you did not guess?”
“Well, there was a something, there certainly was a something—you can see it in the face, can’t you?—something so—so—”
“So distinguished. Exactly!”
“Hibbert?” growled at his elbow.
“Ah, here’s Everitt himself; I’ll make you over to him,” said the unabashed young man, with a laugh. “I give you warning, though, that he hates romance. If you listen to him he’ll deny that there’s a word of truth in any of my stories.”
Later on Everitt fell upon him.
“You unprincipled young dog, what do you mean by uttering such a farrago of nonsense? You’ll be bringing all the scandal-mongers of London down on my head. A duke’s daughter disguised as a model! I should like to know where your impudence will lead you!”