"She loves it because Wick knew about the artist. Imitative little monkey, Grisel."
His mother stared at him. It was on her lips to say, "So are you—so are you an imitative monkey," for she realised that these new artistic tastes of his were derived from some model and not from any instinctive search for a peculiar kind of beauty. Instead she only said, referring to an old pet name of her own for her children, "Yes, one of God's apelets, and so are you, Paul."
He had backed to the far side of the room and stood surveying the effect of the Kakemono with much satisfaction.
"Yes, dear," he murmured, without listening to her. "That's very good, just there. The light catches it just right."
As he spoke, Jessie, the maid, came in, still straightening a hastily tied-on cap and apron.
"A gentleman downstairs to see you, sir."
Paul nodded.
"Oh, Mr. Crichell! We're going to the Grafton Galleries together to see that 'Moonlight in the Trenches' fellow's pictures."
"Please, Mr. Paul, it ain't Mr. Crichell." Jessie was still standing by the door.
"Oh, who is it?"