Fluffy Reubens jumped up, upsetting his canvas:
“For God’s sake, don’t do that!” cried he anxiously; “or we’re lost.... Quick! think of something else—think the coffee’s burnt—think the eggs are addled——”
He flung down his brush:
“Damnation! Judas Iscariot is dead,” he said.
He went to the hall-door, bawled for the woman who looked after the house, and ordered breakfast from an eating-house close by:
“For two,” he called.
He gathered up the painting things sadly, to carry them into the great studio.
The gloomy man on the oak chest coughed:
“I’m real sorry, guv’nor; I’ll try the God-forsaken lay again,” said the wretched man huskily; “but I wish to God you hadn’t mentioned them sausages.”
“No,” said Fluffy Reubens—“it would never be the same thing—and I haven’t the heart to kick you—even if it brought back Judas Iscariot.”