“Humph!”
Harz poised his brush, as though it were a spear:
“A man must do the best in him. If he has to suffer—let him!”
Dawney stretched his large soft body; a calculating look had come into his eyes.
“You're a tough little man!” he said.
“I've had to be tough.”
Dawney rose; tobacco smoke was wreathed round his unruffled hair.
“Touching Villa Rubein,” he said, “shall I call for you? It's a mixed household, English mostly—very decent people.”
“No, thank you. I shall be painting all day. Haven't time to know the sort of people who expect one to change one's clothes.”
“As you like; ta-to!” And, puffing out his chest, Dawney vanished through a blanket looped across the doorway.