The Artist, though he was in some doubt whether his jest was worth proceeding with, was too far committed to retreat. With his wife listening on the stairs, was he not bound to pursue his inquiry? Obviously he must do so, or run the risk of being twitted with his indecision by that lady later on. So he said, with effrontery, "Your mistress says you can tell me the meaning of the expression 'up to date,' Sairah." Sairah turned purple. "Well, I never!" said she. "Mrs. Aching to say that of a respectable girl!" Mr. Aiken became uncomfortable, as Sairah turned purple. He began to perceive that his jest was a very stupid one. As Sairah turned purpler, he became more uncomfortable still. A panic-stricken review of possible ways out of the difficulty started in his mind, but soon stopped for want of materials. Explanation--cajolery--severe transition to another topic--he thought of all three. The first was simply impossible to reasoning faculties like Sairah's. The second was out of Mr. Aiken's line. If the girl had been a _model_ now! ... And who can say that then it might not have been ticklish work--yes!--even with the strong personal vanity of that inscrutable class to appeal to? There was nothing for it but the third, and Mr. Aiken's confidence in it was very weak. Something had to be done, though, with Sairah's colour _crescendo_, and probably Mrs. Hay outside the door; that was the image his mind supplied. He felt like an ill-furnished storming-party, a forlorn hope in want of a ladder, as he said, "There--never mind that now! You've been meddling with this picture. You know you have. Look here!" Had he been a good tactician, he would have affected sudden detection of the injury to the picture. But he lost the opportunity. Sairah held the strong position of an Injured Woman. If she was to have the sack, she much preferred to have it "on her own"--to wrest it, as it were, from a grasp unwilling to surrender it--rather than to have it forced upon her unwilling acceptance, with a month's notice and a character for Vandalism. So she repeated, as one still rigid with amazement, "Mrs. Aching to say that of a respectable girl!" and remained paralysed, in dumb show. Mr. Aiken perceived with chagrin that he might have saved the situation by, "What's this horrible mess on the picture? _You've_ been touching this!" and a drowning storm of indignation to follow. It was too late now. He had to accept his task as Destiny set it, and he cut a very poor figure over it--was quite outclassed by Sairah. He could actually manage nothing better than, "Do let that alone, girl! I tell you it was foolery.... I tell you it was a joke. Look here at this picture--the mischief you've done it. You _know_ you did it!" To which Sairah thus:--"Ho, it's easy gettin' out of it that way, Mr. Aching. Not but what I have always known you for the gentleman--I will say that. But _such_ a thing to say! If I'd a been Missis, I should have shrank!"