"Oh, do dry up! How do you expect me to paint? Pull that book a bit closer, Joan, so it throws the light up on your face, and hold your chin a bit higher——"
As if she spoke to herself I heard Joan's murmur: "Why did the razorbill razorbill?"
As softly Charles Valentine Smith murmured back: "So the sea-urchin could sea-urchin"; and this last flippancy was too much for Philip. He put his palette down on the turf and turned to Smith and myself.
"Look here," he said politely, "will you two fellows oblige me by pushing off? Right away somewhere else, please, and now."
"Oh," Joan wailed, "and I shan't have anybody to talk to!"
"You can read your book."
"But it's such a stupid one—all about an old artist, over thirty, who fell in love with his model and bought her alpaca blouses and thread stockings——"
"You shall have a motor catalogue to-morrow. Now sheer off, you fellows."
Obediently I got on to my feet and turned to Smith.