Fluffy Reubens coughed:
“No luck,” said he. “Any children?”
“Fourteen.”
“Good God!” said Fluffy Reubens.
“I don’t always think so, guv’nor,” said the melancholy figure from the shadows.
Reubens painted in silence for a long time. At last he got up and looked keenly at the man:
“Empty?” he asked.
The bailiff nodded—yes, he was very empty—he was always empty—he was used to it.
“Look here, Sick-horse, you look so damn dramatic I must not put anything into you for half an hour yet—I haven’t quite finished. But after that we’ll have breakfast, eh?”
The man smiled.