"On your thumb nail. The right one. That's it."
It seemed scarcely half a minute before Hawkins was heard exclaiming:
"That's a stunning likeness."
"Take away this 'ere lookin'-glass o' mine, Longlegs, and bestow it on the poor. Wot use 'ave Hi for it w'en Hi carry my hown himage on the hend of my bloomin' thumb?"
"You've a face of great power and cunning," said the artist, "but there's one thing you lack."
"Wot's that?"
"Reverence. Some day I'll use you for a mask of Iago that I've had in mind."
"Thanks. Wot's your name, stranger?"
"Tristram March." It was our artist friend, rummaging for types in this out-of-the-way corner.
"You've a sort of a soft lip about you and a delicate horgan of hodor. But there's one thing you lack?"