Mrs. Waddington raised her eyebrows.
"I completely fail to understand, Mr. Beamish, why, when we are discussing this young man here with the black eye and the dirty collar, you should persist in diverting the conversation to the subject of a perfect stranger like this Mr. Angelo."
"I merely wished to point out," said Hamilton Beamish stiffly, "that the fact that he is an artist does not necessarily damn a man."
"There is no need," retorted Mrs. Waddington with even greater stiffness, "to use bad language."
"Besides, George is a rotten artist."
"Rotten to the core, no doubt."
"I mean," said Hamilton Beamish, flushing slightly at the lapse from the English Pure into which emotion had led him, "he paints so badly that you can hardly call him an artist at all."
"Is that so?" said George, speaking for the first time and speaking nastily.
"I am sure George is one of the cleverest artists living," cried Molly.
"He is not," thundered Hamilton Beamish. "He is an incompetent amateur."