Hor. Order, order! How do you suppose I can paint with such confusion? You have spoiled everything.
Tim. Faith, it’s not myself that’s to blame.
Oak. Darn him! he’s got a nest of hornets under his jacket!
Hor. We can do nothing to-day. It’s now nearly six o’clock. An individual will be here at six to take possession of my room; he has hired it, and I must vacate.
Oak. What, hired the room over your head?
Hor. Yes; it’s a little plot of my father’s to get me home again. If he stays here, I must give up my painting; and of course you will be wanted no more as models.
Loop. Sacre! zat is too bad! ver mooch too bad!
Tim. Faith! must I lose my sitivation?
Pic. Yaw; we can’t come here some more!
Hor. That’s exactly the state of the case. Of course, as he’s my father, it will not do for me to take any measures to cause him to leave. With you it is different. If you can manage to make him sick of his bargain to-night, we shall resume operations to-morrow, as usual.