“Yes. Do you like it?”
“I like it. It seems to me new. Stronger than most things. All these people going in for thin, flat colour and greens and mauves make me long for something solid.”
“I’m going to show that and a portrait of Oliver.”
“I want my breakfast,” said she.
“Oh! shut up. We’re talking. . . . I’ve just begun the portrait. No psychological nonsense about it. It’s just the head of a woman in paint. I don’t want any damn fool writing about my picture: she is wiser than the chair on which she sits and the secrets of the antimacassar are hers. A picture’s a picture and a book’s a book.”
“I do want my breakfast,” sang Oliver.
Logan went livid with fury.
“Be silent, woman,” he said.
“I shan’t, so there. I want my breakfast.”
“Why the hell don’t you get the breakfast then?”