"How d'ye do?" said Mr. Jacks, coming forward casually. "Sorry I'm just going out. What's the night like?"
Madame switched on the electric light, and Gertie could see that the room suggested a large cucumber frame with a sloping glass roof and windows at the far end. On a raised square platform in a corner stood a draped lay figure, not, apparently, quite sober.
"Well," said Madame's husband, after glancing again at the visitor, "if it's fine, I don't know that there's any special necessity for me to go. What do you say, darling?" This to his wife.
"Please yourself, Digby, my sweet. If you think you can put up with our company, I am sure Miss Higham and myself will be delighted if you can stay. Mr. Jacks," she explained to Gertie, "is naturally attracted to his club, not only because he finds there all the latest news concerning his profession, but because it gives him an opportunity of coming into contact with other bright, vivacious spirits." She took Gertie's coat and hat. "Perhaps we can get him to tell us some of his best stories presently."
Her husband smoothed his hair at the mirror with both hands, and gave style and uniformity to the two halves of his moustache. This done, he turned and asked the girl whether she did not consider Whistler an overrated artist. Just because he happened to be dead, people raved about him. Would not allow any one else to produce impressions of the Thames round about Chelsea. Mr. Jacks said, rather bitterly, that when he too was no more, folk would doubtless be going mad about him, and Jubilee Place might become impassable owing to the crowd of dealers waiting their turn there.
"And what good do you imagine that will do to me?" he demanded. "Eh, what? No use you saying that I ought to be content with the praise of posterity."
"I didn't say so. How many hours do you work a day?"
"I can't work unless the fit takes me," argued Madame's husband weakly.
"Are you subject to them? Fits, I mean?"
Madame, assisting the maid in setting the table, took up the case for the defence, and pointed out to Miss Higham that one profession differed from another. In the case of painting, for instance, you could not expect to be ruled by office hours; you had to wait until inspiration came, and then the light was, perhaps, not exactly what you required. Besides, friends might drop in at that moment for a smoke and a chat.