“I certainly withdraw my offer. In regard to prohibition of the house that, of course, rests entirely with my old friend, of whom you have spoken in a singularly disrespectful—and shall I say ungentlemanlike?—manner.”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Jim, humbly. “It has done me good to say it. But, of course, I’m in the wrong altogether.”
“You are, undoubtedly. To my mind, you are more in the wrong than one could have judged possible for a young man of your character, upbringing, and attainments to be.”
“If a confounded girl,” said Jim, “will make a practice of coming into this room continually to ask you what your opinion is of her hat and her frock, and whether you have ever tasted cream buns and pink ices, and whether you think Muffin’s mauve was as nice as her lilac is——”
“My dear Lascelles,” interrupted Cheriton, “your habit of explanation is really most unfortunate.”
“Well, kick me out and my canvas too,” said Jim, desperately, “and have done with it.”
Jim Lascelles, like the rash and hasty fellow that he was, feeling himself to be irretrievably disgraced and that he had forfeited forever the respect and good-will of his only patron, proceeded to pack up his brushes and his pigments.
“The former part of your suggestion, Lascelles, is much the simpler matter of the two. But in the matter of the half-finished canvas I foresee difficulty.”
“You have repudiated it, haven’t you?” said Jim, rather fiercely.
“Unquestionably as a copy of the Dorset. But all the same, I do not think it can be permitted to leave this house.”