“The design outlined on the plaster in the central space on the left-hand side of the skylight dome,” said Wopse, A.R.A., “is the ‘Judgment of Paris.’ The three figures of the rival goddesses are completely outlined, but, as you see, Paris is only roughly blocked in.”
“I don’t see a city,” said the Duke with some annoyance. “I only see a bit of a man. And, as for being block-tin——”
“Paris was a man—or, rather, a youth,” said Halcyon Wopse, quoting—
“‘Fair and disdainfully lidded, the Shepherd of Ida,
Holding the golden apple, desired of——’”
“Hold on! When people get spouting it knocks me galley-west,” said the Duke. “Just tell me plainly what the beggar was to judge? Goddesses? I savvy! And which of ’em took the biscuit—I mean the apple? Venus? Right you are! That’s as much as I can hold at one time, thanky!”
“Sorry if I’ve over-estimated the extent of the accommodation,” said Halcyon Wopse, smiling and lighting a cigar.
“One of the Partagas. Now, hang it,” said the Duke, “that is infernally stupid of my man.”
“Of my man, you mean,” corrected the painter.
“I begin to think,” said the Duke, “that I have, in falling in with the absurd plot, cooked up by that old footler, Beaumaris, and swopping characters with a beg—with an artist fellow like you, in order to take the fancy of a long-haired, long-legged colt of a girl——”