“An artist isn’t a conjurer!” said Mendel.
“That is just what artists have been,” cried Logan, “and they can’t bluff it out any more.”
“Exactly!” gurgled Tysoe, who when he was roused from his habitual weak lethargy lost control of his voice, so that it wobbled between a shrill treble and a husky bass. “Exactly! That’s what I like about you two. No bluff, no tricks. You do what you want to do and damn the consequences. Ha! ha!”
So ill was Mendel just before the exhibition that Logan refused to allow him anywhere near it, and insisted that they should both go to Brighton, leaving Oliver to go to the private view and spy out the land.
Oliver protested. She wanted to go to Brighton.
“You shall have a new dress and a new hat,” said Logan. “You must go to the private view like a real lady. Cluny doesn’t know you, and you must go up to him every now and then and ask him in a loud voice what the prices are. You might even pretend to be a little deaf and make him speak clearly and distinctly.”
The idea tickled Mendel so that he began to laugh, could not stop himself, and was soon almost hysterical.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Oliver, shaking him.
He gasped:—
“I—I was laughing at the idea of your being a real lady. Ha! ha! ha!”