Hor. Why, father! what’s the matter?
Eben. O, you villain! you scamp! you renegade! You have come just in time to save your father from a terrible fate! But I’ve found you out! Your “tender attachment” is known to me. Look upon her! Can you look upon your father’s face, and confess a tender attachment to such a thing as that?
Hor. Not a tender attachment, father; but I will confess I am under great obligations to that individual, Timothy Tinpan, the tinker.
Eben. What! is that woman a man?
Tim. Troth, and a foine ould Irish gintleman!
Hor. Yes, father, he is one of my models.
Tim. Faith, a model Irishman, by yer lave!
Eben. Models! What do you mean?
Hor. That I have been endeavoring to overcome your repugnance to my becoming a painter, by attempting the execution of a painting which you see upon that easel. These individuals have been my models. Timothy Tinpan, the tinker.