They were called in again and found Oliver sitting up on the bed eating chocolates. She greeted Thompson with a queenly gesture, and clapped her hands when Mendel told her they were going out to see the sights.
“I’m sick of artists,” she said. “I have quite enough of them in London. I wish to God you weren’t an artist, Logan. You’d be quite a nice man if you worked for your living.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” mumbled Logan, who was subdued and curiously ashamed of himself. “If I were like that I should have a little dried-up wife and an enormous family, and you wouldn’t have a look in.”
“And a good job too!” cried Oliver, in her most provoking tone. “A good job too! I’d find someone who had a respect for me.”
“D’you find Paris a good place to work in?” Logan turned to Thompson.
“I never knew the meaning of work till I came here. Ever heard of Rousseau?”
“Oh, yes,” said Logan.
“I don’t mean the writer, I mean . . .”
“I know, I know,” said Logan nonchalantly. He could never admit ignorance of anything.
“A great painter,” cried Thompson eagerly. “A very great painter. I tell you he brought Impressionism up sharp. They had overshot the mark, you know. Manet, Monet: they had overshot the mark.”