He glared. With a final, almost dramatic twist he gave over jerking at his moustache, and grabbed up a chair, which he put down beside her with a vehemence that spoke plainer than words.
"I say," he began, scowling in the direction of the doorway, "how long is he going to be at this silly job?"
"Silly job? Why, it is to be a masterpiece," she cried.
"I asked you how long?"
"Oh, how can I tell? Weeks, perhaps. One can't prod a genius."
"It's all tommy-rot," he growled. "I suppose I'd better take the next train back to town."
"Don't you like talking with me?" she inquired, with a pout.
"Of course I do," he made haste to say. "But do you mean to say they won't let anybody in where—Oh, I say! This is rich!"
"Spectators upset the muse, or words to that effect."
He stared gloomily at his cigarette case for a moment. Then he carefully selected a cigarette and tapped it on the back of his hand.