Mr. Wilkes once more wiped down the bar. "True enough, sir, I don't. But when I took over this house I don't mind telling you I hadn't ever had anything to do with electric plants, me having always lived in a town. I didn't know no more about it than what half the young gentlemen do, who try and meddle with it. And I did have a notion to run a laundry off it, just by way of a sidebusiness, as you might call it. So what with one thing and another I let myself be talked into putting up a plant that cost me a mint of money, and ain't, between ourselves, as cheap to run as what the smooth-tongued fellow that sold it me said it would be. Excuse me, sir, half a moment!" He hurried away to attend to a farmer who had come in, and Charles and Peter went to sit down at a table in the window.
The taproom began to fill up, and soon there were quite a number of people in it. They were mostly villagers, and there was no sign of Strange, or his odd associate. But a few minutes before one o'clock a man came in who was obviously no farm-hand. He attracted Peter's attention at once, but this was not surprising, since his appearance and conduct were alike out of the ordinary. Artist was stamped unmistakably upon him. His black hair was worn exceedingly long; he had a carelessly tied, very flowing piece of silk round his neck; his fingers were stained with paint; he had a broadbrimmed hat crammed on to his head; and was the owner of a pointed beard.
"Good Lord, I thought that type went out with the 'Nineties!" murmured Peter.
The artist walked rather unsteadily up to the bar, and leaning sideways across it, said with a distinct foreign accent: "Whisky. Double."
Wilkes had watched his approach frowningly, and he now hesitated, and said something in a low voice. The artist smote his open hand down on the bar, and said loudly: 'My friend, you give me what I say. You think I am drunk, hein? Well, I am not drunk. You see? You give me…'
"All right, Mr. Dooval," Wilkes said hastily. "No offence I hope."
"You give me what I say," insisted M. Duval. "I paint a great picture. So great a picture the world will say, why do we not hear of this Louis Duval?" He took the glass Wilkes handed him, and drained it at one gulp. "Another. And when I have painted this picture, then I tell you I have finished with everything but my art." He stretched out a hand that shook slightly towards his glass. His eye wandered round the room: his voice sank to the grumbling tone of the partially intoxicated. "I will be at no man's call. No, no: that is over when I have paint my picture. You hear?"
Mr. Wilkes seemed to be trying to quieten him by asking some questions about the picture he was painting.
"It is not for such as you," M. Duval said. "What have the English to do with art? Bah, you do not know what feelings I have in me, here…' He struck his chest. "To think I must be with you, and those others - canaille!"
"Gentleman seems a little peevish," remarked Charles, sotto voce.