CARVE. (In a new casual tone.) Just get me my cash-box, will you? (JANET at once produces the cash-box from a drawer.) JANET. And what now? I'm not broke yet, you great silly. (Laughs, but is rather intimidated by CARVE'S air.) CARVE. (Having unlocked box and taken a bag from it.) You see that? (He showers gold out of it.) Well, count it! JANET. Gracious! Ten--fifteen--eighteen--twenty?--two--four--twenty-six pounds. These your savings? CARVE. That's what I've earned with painting, just at odd times. JANET. Really? (CARVE nods.) You could knock me down with a feather! CARVE. I'll tell you. You know the framemaker's next to Salmon and Gluckstein's. I buy my colours and canvases and things there. They cost money. I owed the chap two pounds once, and one morning, in the shop, when I was opening my box to put some new tubes in, he saw one of my pictures all wet. He offered of his own accord to take it for what I owed him. I wouldn't let him have it. But I was rather hard up, so I said I'd do him another instead, and I did him one in a different style and not half as good, and of course he liked it even better. Since then, I've done him quite a few. It isn't that I've needed the money; but it's a margin, and colours and frames, etc. come to a dickens of a lot in a year. JANET. (Staggered.) And whatever does he do with them? CARVE. With the pictures? Don't know. I've never seen one in his window. I haven't been selling him any lately. JANET. Why? CARVE. Oh, I didn't feel like it. And the things were getting too good. But, of course, I can start again any time. JANET. (Still staggered.) Two pounds a piece? (CARVE nods.) Would he give you two pounds for that? (Pointing to portrait.) CARVE. You bet he would. JANET. Why! Two pounds would keep us for the best part of a week. How long does it take you to do one? (Noise of motor car outside.) CARVE. Oh, three or four hours. I work pretty quickly. JANET. Well, it's like a fairy tale. Two pounds! I don't know whether I'm standing on my head or my heels! (Violent ringing at front door bell.) CARVE. There's one of your tradesmen. JANET. It isn't. They know better than come to my front door. They know I won't have it. (Exit, throwing off apron.) (CARVE examines the portrait of his wife with evident pleasure.) CARVE. (To himself.) That 'ud make 'em sit up in Bond Street. (Laughs grimly.) (Voices off. Re-enter JANET, followed by EBAG carrying a picture.) JANET. Well, it never rains but it pours. Here's a gentleman in a motor car wants to know if you've got any pictures for sale. (She calmly conceals her apron.) EBAG. (With diplomatic caution and much deference.) Good-morning. CARVE. (Whose entire demeanour has suddenly changed into hostility.) Good-morning.