Charles threw his hat on the ground and stamped on it.
'Dolt! Fool! Idiot!' he shouted. 'Go away and paint it as I tell you to paint it.'
'Damned if I do,' said Smithson. 'My firm has painted all the scenery for this theatre since Sir Henry took it, and we've had our name on the programme, and we've got a reputation to lose. When Shakespeare says an island, he means an island, not the crater of a blooming volcano....'
Charles snatched his drawing out of Mr Smithson's hand, and with an expression of extreme agony he said.—
'Clara, you dragged me into this infernal theatre. Will you please see that I am not driven mad in it? Am I an artist?'
'You may be an artist, Mr Mann,' said Mr Smithson, 'but I'm a practical scene-painter. I was painting scenery before you were born. I was three years old in my father's workshop when I put my first dab of paint on for the Valley of Diamonds for Drury Lane in Gustus Harris's days.'
The argument might have gone on indefinitely, but fortunately Sir Henry came down the stairs with Lady Butcher. He was immaculately dressed in frock-coat and top hat, gray Cashmere trousers, and white waistcoat to attend with his wife a fashionable reception. With a low bow, he swept off his very shiny hat, and said to Lady Butcher,—
'My dear, Mr Charles Mann.'
Lady Butcher gave a curt nod.
'My dear, Miss Day....'