“You fly high.”
“I've been beating my wings long enough. Where do you exhibit, Dick?”
“I don't exhibit. I sell.”
“What is your line, then?”
“Haven't you heard?” Dick's eyes opened. Was this thing possible? He cast about for some means of conviction. They were not far from the Marble Arch. “Come up Oxford Street a little and I'll show you.”
A small knot of people stood round a print-shop that Dick knew well.
“Some reproduction of my work inside,” he said, with suppressed triumph. Never before had success tasted so sweet upon the tongue. “You see the sort of things I paint. D'you like it?”
Maisie looked at the wild whirling rush of a field-battery going into action under fire. Two artillery-men stood behind her in the crowd.
“They've chucked the off lead-'orse” said one to the other. “'E's tore up awful, but they're makin' good time with the others. That lead-driver drives better nor you, Tom. See 'ow cunnin' 'e's nursin' 'is 'orse.”
“Number Three'll be off the limber, next jolt,” was the answer.