"A picture?" said Hancock. "What on earth do I want with pictures?"
"Let me paint your portrait."
Hancock made a movement with his hand as if to say "Pish!"
"Well, look here," said Leavesley, with the cynicism of despair, "let me paint Bridgewater, let me paint the office, whitewash the ceilings, only give me a show."
"I would not mind the money I have spent on you," said Hancock, ignoring all this, "the bills I have paid, if, to use your own expression, there was any show for it; but, as far as I can see, you are like a man in a quagmire, the only advance you are making, the only advance visible to mortal eye, is that you are getting deeper into debt;" then two tones lower, "deeper into debt."
"Well, see here, lend me a fiver," cried Leavesley, now grown desperate and impudent.
James Hancock put his fingers into the upper pocket of his waistcoat, and Leavesley's heart made a spring for his throat.
But Mr Hancock did not produce a five-pound note. He produced a small piece of chamois leather with which he polished his glasses, which he had taken off, in a reflective manner.
"I'm awfully hard up for the moment, and I have pressing need of it. I don't want you to give me the money, I'll pay it back."
Mr Hancock put on his glasses again.