"It is curious, Cornelius, that up to the present I have not actually drawn any of the groups. My figures are still in my head."
Both were surprised. Each, spending his own afternoons in sleep, had given the other credit for working during that part of the day. But they were too much accustomed to keep up appearances to make any remark upon this curious coincidence.
"Then, brother," said the Poet, with a sigh of relief, "there really is not the slightest use in leading Mr. Beck to believe that the works will be finished by October, and we had better ask for a longer term. A year longer would do for me."
"A year longer would, I think, do for me," said Humphrey, stroking his beard, as if he was calculating how long each figure would take to put in. "We will go and see Mr. Beck to-morrow."
"Better not," said the sagacious Poet.
"Why not?"
"He might ask for the money back."
"True, brother. He must be capable of that meanness, or he would have given us that cheque we asked for. Very true. We will write."
"What excuse shall we make?"
"We will state the exact truth, Brother. No excuse need be invented. We will tell our Patron that Art cannot—must not—be forced."