“You spoke of painters loafing. What made you single out that particular profession? I believe it may be called a profession,” Vincent laughed.
“Oh! You said you were a painter——”
“Yes, but you were not thinking of me, I’ll wager. You’ve only seen me half an hour.”
“You’re right; I was not thinking of painters, or of you in general, but of a particular case that came under my personal observation.”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly responded Serle, as he mentally abused the lawyer for his measured, pedantic delivery. “Your story interests.”
Marden glanced at the other’s flaming cheeks and replied, rather abruptly:
“But you haven’t heard it yet. However, it’s not much of a yarn. It happened—several years ago. A lady, a client, came to me for advice. She was married, married, I say, to an artist, a painter—a big, good-for-nothing fellow, who was lazy, who drank, ran after his models and spent her money.” Marden was interrupted.
“Excuse me, you said the lady was rich?”
“Did I?”
“Certainly, spent her money was your last phrase.”