Artist. I refer to the color—the pigment.
Mr. B. The color the pig meant. The pig—the pig. I meant what I said, sir; and if you think to call me a pig with impunity you are very much mistaken.
Artist. Oh, no—no—no, my dear sir; you mistake me. We artists use a beautiful pink color called madder, and I spoke of this as a pigment—no offence, not for the world. But allow me to place the picture in a better light; you can hardly judge of it in its present position. (Turns easel and picture round facing the audience.) (Aside.)—Now won't he be an unreasonable old polypus to object to that as a likeness? (Aloud.)—There, sir, now you can see it better. (They both sit down in chairs, the artist on his own palette and Mr. B. on the slice of bread and butter left by the artist.)
Artist. Now, sir, I think I have caught the expression of your eyes and spectacles; and as for the nose, it literally speaks, while the chin and mouth—
Mr. B. Yes—yes, but I don't think you have stuck quite closely enough to nature. There is nothing like sticking to a thing. (Rises and moves towards picture, showing slice of bread sticking to his coat-tails. Advances and examines picture critically.)
Artist. I declare, if the idiotic old grampus has not been sitting down on my bread and butter. It is most extraordinary that some people will never look where they sit down. (Rises to remove bread and butter, and shows palette sticking to his dressing-gown behind.) The carelessness of some people is marvellous—really astonishing.
Mr. B. The shirt-collar is certainly very like; but don't you think the complexion is a little high? because I am really rather pale, you know.
Artist (making futile endeavors to remove the bread and butter with one hand). Ah, yes, perhaps that might be toned down a little. (Aside.) I'll whitewash the old brute if he likes. (Aloud.) If you will be kind enough to take a seat for two minutes I will try to avail myself of your valuable suggestion (looks around for his palette). Now, where on earth can be my palette? (Looks suspiciously at old Mr. B.) He can't have been sitting down on that too—and yet I do believe he's stupid enough for anything. (Looks for palette again.) No. (At this moment Mr. B. sits down on the chair where Mr. P. has concealed his breakfast, and everything goes with a crash.)
Artist. There goes that old porpoise again! All my breakfast gone—my beautiful tea and my elegant bread and butter. (To Mr. B., who apologizes.) Ah, never mind, sir—no consequence; only a few paint saucers, that's all. No consequence; take a seat over here. (Seats old gent in the chair which Mr. B. first occupied, and which artist has since used.) But my palette—where can it have gone? Where's that d—d palette? Let me see; I think I laid it on that chair. Will you kindly rise for one moment, Mr. Winglebully? (Looks at Mr. B.'s back.) No! strange—let me see—oh! ah! yes—I—he sat over there. (A thought seems to have struck him. He begins to feel behind his own coat, where he finds the palette. Produces it—his own fingers covered with paint.) There it is—I knew I'd put it somewhere. (Here a knocking is heard at the door. Mr. B. jumps up and grasps the artist by the hand, getting his own covered with paint in the operation.)
Mr. B. Here she is! For heaven's sake, conceal me!