“How much does he want?”
“A dozen exhibits each.”
“Oh! very well.”
“And will you come and dine to-night with my fool of a patron, Mr. Tilney Tysoe?”
“I don’t want to know fools. I know quite enough already.”
“But I’ve promised to take you. . . . He adores Bohemians, as he calls us, and he buys pictures.”
“Does he give you good food?”
“Some of the best in London.”
“All right.”
“Meet us at the Paris Café at seven-thirty. Don’t dress. Tysoe would be dreadfully disappointed if you didn’t turn up reeking of paint. It would be almost better not to wash.”