"No," said Margaret. "But I did try." She watched his unskilful handling of the ocre. "I could show you a thing or two," she suggested.
She had all a woman's love for technique, and might have been satisfied with more skill and less purpose. But Ford shook his head.
"No, thank you," he said. "It's not worth while. I 'm only painting for myself. I know what I mean by these messes I make; if I could paint more, I mightn't be so pleased with it."
"As you like, of course," said Margaret, a little disappointed.
He worked in silence for about a minute.
"You didn't like the looks of Dr. Jakes?" he suggested suddenly. "I saw you wondering at him in there."
"Well," Margaret hesitated. "He seemed rather out of it," she answered. "Is there anything—wrong—with him?"
Ford was making an irreparable mess of his picture and did not look up.
"Wrong?" he repeated. "Well, depends what you call wrong. He drinks."
"Drinks!" Margaret did not like the matter-of-fact way in which he said it. "Do you mean—"