“But I must, to ease my mind. I ought to have known that my young Samson would not yield to any Delilah, and be shorn of his manly locks.—Yes, that’s capital whisky. I haven’t had a drop since yesterday afternoon. A toast: ‘Confound the wrong woman.’ Hang them,” he continued after a long draught, “they’re always coming to you with rosy apples in their hands or cheeks, and saying, ‘Have a bite,’ You don’t want to paint portraits. You can paint angels from clay to bring you cash and fame. Aha, my goddess of beauty and brightness, I salute thee, Bella Donna, in Hippocrene!”
“Oh, do adone, Mr Pacey,” said the lady addressed to wit, Keren-Happuch. “I never do know what you mean, I declare,”—(sniff)—“I wouldn’t come into the studio when you’re here if I wasn’t obliged. Please, Mr Dale, sir, here’s that French Mossoo gentleman. He says, his compliments, and are you too busy to see him?”
“No, Hebe the fair, he is not,” cried Pacey. “Tell him there is a symposium on the way, and he is to ascend.”
“A which, sir? Sym—sym—”
“Sym—whisky, Bella Donna.”
The girl glanced at Dale, who nodded his head, and she hurried out. The door opened the next minute to admit a slight little man, most carefully dressed, and whose keen, refined features, essentially French, were full of animation.
“Ah, you smoke, and are at rest,” he said. “Then I am welcome. Dear boys, both of you. And the picture?”
He stood, cigarette in teeth, gazing at the large canvas for a few moments.
“Excellent! So good!” he cried. “Ah, Dale, my friend, you would be great, but you do so paint backwards.”
“Eh?” cried Pacey.