WELLWYN. [Spasmodically.] Ah! Now that's what I want. [He dabs furiously at the canvas. Then standing back, runs his hands through his hair and turns a painter's glance towards the skylight.] Dash! Light's gone! Off you get, child--don't tempt me! [MRS. MEGAN descends. Passing towards the door of the model's room she stops, and stealthily looks at the picture.] TIMSON. Ah! Would yer! WELLWYN. [Wheeling round.] Want to have a look? Well--come on! [He takes her by the arm, and they stand before the canvas. After a stolid moment, she giggles.] WELLWYN. Oh! You think so? MRS. MEGAN. [Who has lost her hoarseness.] It's not like my picture that I had on the pier. WELLWYN. No-it wouldn't be. MRS. MEGAN. [Timidly.] If I had an 'at on, I'd look better. WELLWYN. With feathers? MRS. MEGAN. Yes. WELLWYN. Well, you can't! I don't like hats, and I don't like feathers. [MRS. MEGAN timidly tugs his sleeve. TIMSON, screened as he thinks by the picture, has drawn from his bulky pocket a bottle and is taking a stealthy swig.] WELLWYN. [To MRS. MEGAN, affecting not to notice.] How much do I owe you? MRS. MEGAN. [A little surprised.] You paid me for to-day-all 'cept a penny. WELLWYN. Well! Here it is. [He gives her a coin.] Go and get your feet on! MRS. MEGAN. You've give me 'arf a crown. WELLWYN. Cut away now! [MRS. MEGAN, smiling at the coin, goes towards the model's room. She looks back at WELLWYN, as if to draw his eyes to her, but he is gazing at the picture; then, catching old TIMSON'S sour glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet with a little squeal. But when WELLWYN turns to the sound, she is demurely passing through the doorway.] TIMSON. [In his voice of dubious sobriety.] I've finished these yer brushes, sir. It's not a man's work. I've been thinkin' if you'd keep an 'orse, I could give yer satisfaction. WELLWYN. Would the horse, Timson? TIMSON. [Looking him up and down.] I knows of one that would just suit yer. Reel 'orse, you'd like 'im. WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] Afraid not, Timson! Awfully sorry, though, to have nothing better for you than this, at present. TIMSON. [Faintly waving the brushes.] Of course, if you can't afford it, I don't press you--it's only that I feel I'm not doing meself justice. [Confidentially.] There's just one thing, sir; I can't bear to see a gen'leman imposed on. That foreigner--'e's not the sort to 'ave about the place. Talk? Oh! ah! But 'e'll never do any good with 'imself. He's a alien. WELLWYN. Terrible misfortune to a fellow, Timson. TIMSON. Don't you believe it, sir; it's his fault I says to the young lady yesterday: Miss Ann, your father's a gen'leman [with a sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are--I don't mind sayin' it--but, I said, he's too easy-goin'. WELLWYN. Indeed!