“Did they hang you well?” said Porson.
“Don’t rot,” said Mr Watkins; “I don’t like it.”
“I mean did they put you in a good place?”
“Whadyer mean?” said Mr Watkins suspiciously. “One ‘ud think you were trying to make out I’d been put away.”
Porson had been brought up by aunts, and was a gentlemanly young man even for an artist; he did not know what being “put away” meant, but he thought it best to explain that he intended nothing of the sort. As the question of hanging seemed a sore point with Mr Watkins, he tried to divert the conversation a little.
“Do you do figure-work at all?”
“No, never had a head for figures,” said Mr Watkins, “my miss—Mrs Smith, I mean, does all that.”
“She paints too!” said Porson. “That’s rather jolly.”
“Very,” said Mr Watkins, though he really did not think so, and, feeling the conversation was drifting a little beyond his grasp, added, “I came down here to paint Hammerpond House by moonlight.”
“Really!” said Porson. “That’s rather a novel idea.”