Artist. To back up the figures, and so on.
Lady. Oh, really! Well, I thought it was to keep the bedstead and all that out of sight, you know.
“AYE, THERE’S THE RUB!”
Irascible Patron (who has wiped out a good deal of Funkie’s great work). Confound your nasty picture, sir! See what it has done! The canvas is reeking with paint, sir—positively reeking! It’s disgraceful! [Exit in a whirlwind.
Artist (to his hypochondriacal friend with an independence). Ah! my dear fellow, if you had to work hard and get your own living as we have, you’d have no dyspepsia, I’ll be bound; good-bye.
THE MARCH OF SCIENCE.
Artist (as a hint to his friend). Bless me! Five o’clock! I had no idea it was so late. How quickly time does fly now!