“Well, I had every excuse, after living with that infernal thing for a week!”
Archie looked at him, astonished.
“I say, old thing, I don’t know if I have got your meaning exactly, but you somehow give me the impression that you don’t like that jolly old work of Art.”
“Like it!” cried Mr. Brewster. “It’s nearly driven me mad! Every time it caught my eye, it gave me a pain in the neck. To-night I felt as if I couldn’t stand it any longer. I didn’t want to hurt Lucille’s feelings, by telling her, so I made up my mind I would cut the damned thing out of its frame and tell her it had been stolen.”
“What an extraordinary thing! Why, that’s exactly what old Wheeler did.”
“Who is old Wheeler?”
“Artist chappie. Pal of mine. His fiancée painted the thing, and, when I lifted it off him, he told her it had been stolen. He didn’t seem frightfully keen on it, either.”
“Your friend Wheeler has evidently good taste.”
Archie was thinking.
“Well, all this rather gets past me,” he said. “Personally, I’ve always admired the thing. Dashed ripe bit of work, I’ve always considered. Still, of course, if you feel that way—”