“Dick, you’re a great painter, but you’re also a great vulgarian!”
“Well, my father was a national schoolmaster and my mother was a butcher’s daughter. I can’t help my vernacular. You took a fancy to this fellow in the Cafe Royal, and you begged me to paint him so that you might get to know him. I obeyed you—”
“The heavens will certainly fall before you become obedient.”
“—and asked him here. Then I asked you. You came. He came. I started painting. How many sittings have I had?”
“Three.”
“Then you’ve met him here four times?”
“Yes.”
“And why have you always let him go away alone from the studio?”
“Why should I go with him? I much prefer to stay on here and have a talk with you. You are far more interesting than Arabian is. He says very little. Probably he knows very little. I can learn from you.”
“That’s all very well. I will say you’re damned keen on acquiring knowledge. But Arabian interests you in a way I certainly don’t; in a sex way.”