MARY. Yes, ma’am. NANCY. Would you look in my purse? (_MARY goes to the sideboard and opens the purse._) How much is there? MARY. Three coppers and two stamps, ma’am. NANCY. Oh! (_Determined to be brave_) Well, that’s fivepence. MARY. They are halfpenny stamps, ma’am. NANCY (_utterly undone_). Oh, Mary! What a very unfortunate morning we’re having. (_Coaxingly_) Well, anyhow it’s fourpence, isn’t it? MARY. Yes, ma’am. NANCY. Well, now what can we get for fourpence? MARY (_stolidly_). A turkey. NANCY (_laughing with complete happiness_). Oh, Mary, don’t be so gloomy about it. (_Collapsing into laughter again_) Let’s have two turkeys—two tuppenny ones. MARY. It’s enough to make any one gloomy to see a nice gentleman like Mr. Broxopp and a nice lady like yourself starving in a garret. NANCY. I don’t know what a garret is, but if this is one, I love garrets. And we’re not starving; we’ve got fourpence. (_Becoming practical again_) What about a nice chop? MARY. It isn’t much for two of you. NANCY. Three of us, Mary. MARY. Oh, I can do all right on bread and cheese, ma’am. NANCY. Well then, so can I. And Jim can have the chop. There! Now let me get on with my work. (_Contemptuously to herself as she goes on with her drawing_) Starving! And in a house _full_ of bread and cheese! MARY. Mr. Broxopp is not the sort of gentleman to eat a chop while his wife is only eating a bit of cheese. NANCY (_with love in her voice and eyes_). No, he isn’t! (_Proudly_) Isn’t he a _fine_ man, Mary? MARY. Yes, he’s a real gentleman is Mr. Broxopp. It’s queer he doesn’t make more money. NANCY. Well, you see, he’s an artist. MARY (_surprised_). An artist? Now that’s funny, I’ve never seen him painting any of his pictures. NANCY. I don’t mean that sort of an artist. I mean he’s—— (_Wrinkling her forehead_) Now, how did he put it yesterday? He likes ideas for their own sake. He wants to educate the public up to them. He doesn’t believe in pandering to the public for money. He’s in advance of his generation—like all great artists. MARY (_hopefully_). Yes, ma’am. NANCY (_pointing to the advertisement of Spenlow’s suspenders_). Now, there you see what I mean. Now that’s what the artist in Mr. Broxopp feels that a suspender-advertisement _ought_ to be like. But Mr. Spenlow doesn’t agree with him. Mr. Spenlow says it’s above the public’s head. And so he’s rejected Jim’s work. That’s the worst of trying to work for a man like Mr. Spenlow. He doesn’t understand artists. Jim says that if _he_ saw an advertisement like that, he’d buy ten pairs at once, even if he never wore anything but kilts. And Jim says you can’t work for men like that, and one day he’ll write advertisements for something of his own. MARY. Lor, ma’am! Well, I’ve often wondered myself if it was quite decent for a gentleman like Mr. Broxopp to write about things that aren’t spoken of in ordinary give-and-take conversation. But then——