Tommy waved his arms. “I must try to see my uncle and ask him what’s the meaning of it. Of course I’ve no claim on him—but he’s a rich man and fond of me and all that—and, when my poor mother died, he sort of adopted me and gave me to understand that I needn’t worry. So I haven’t worried. And when I took up with painting he encouraged me all he knew. It’s damnable!” He paused, and strode three or four paces up the studio and three or four back, as though to work off the dangerous excess of damnability in the situation. “It isn’t as if I were an idle waster going to the devil. I’ve worked jolly hard, haven’t I? I’ve put my back into it, and I’m beginning to do something. Only last week I was telling him about the New Gallery picture—he seemed quite pleased—and now, without a minute’s warning, he sends this foxy-faced jackal to tell me to go into an office. It’s—it’s—God knows what it isn’t!”
“I believe,” said Clementina, looking at her thumb, “that there are quite worthy young men in City offices.”
“I would sooner go into a stoke-hole,” cried Tommy. “Oh, it’s phantasmagorical!”
He sat down on the platform of the throne and buried his head in his hands.
“Cheer up,” said Clementina. “The world hasn’t come to an end yet and we haven’t had dinner.”
She opened a door at the back of the studio that communicated with the kitchen regions and, calling out for Eliza, was answered by a distant voice.
“Go to the grocer’s and fetch a bottle of champagne for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the voice, coming nearer. “What kind of champagne?”
“I don’t know,” said Clementina. “But tell him to send the best bottle he has got.”
“What a good sort you are,” said Tommy.