“But how will you see your canvas?”

“Have a bloomin’ cop’s—­” began Mr Watkins, rising too quickly to the question, and then realising this, bawled to Miss Durgan for another glass of beer.  “I’m goin’ to have a thing called a dark lantern,” he said to Porson.

“But it’s about new moon now,” objected Porson.  “There won’t be any moon.”

“There’ll be the house,” said Watkins, “at any rate.  I’m goin’, you see, to paint the house first and the moon afterwards.”

“Oh!” said Porson, too staggered to continue the conversation.

“They doo say,” said old Durgan, the landlord, who had maintained a respectful silence during the technical conversation, “as there’s no less than three p’licemen from ’Azelworth on dewty every night in the house—­’count of this Lady Aveling ’n her jewellery.  One’m won fower-and-six last night, off second footman—­tossin’.”

Towards sunset next day Mr Watkins, virgin canvas, easel, and a very considerable case of other appliances in hand, strolled up the pleasant pathway through the beech-woods to Hammerpond Park, and pitched his apparatus in a strategic position commanding the house.  Here he was observed by Mr Raphael Sant, who was returning across the park from a study of the chalk-pits.  His curiosity having been fired by Person’s account of the new arrival, he turned aside with the idea of discussing nocturnal art.

Mr Watkins was apparently unaware of his approach.  A friendly conversation with Lady Hammerpond’s butler had just terminated, and that individual, surrounded by the three pet dogs which it was his duty to take for an airing after dinner had been served, was receding in the distance.  Mr Watkins was mixing colour with an air of great industry.  Sant, approaching more nearly, was surprised to see the colour in question was as harsh and brilliant an emerald green as it is possible to imagine.  Having cultivated an extreme sensibility to colour from his earliest years, he drew the air in sharply between his teeth at the very first glimpse of this brew.  Mr Watkins turned round.  He looked annoyed.

“What on earth are you going to do with that beastly green?” said Sant.

Mr Watkins realised that his zeal to appear busy in the eyes of the butler had evidently betrayed him into some technical error.  He looked at Sant and hesitated.

“Pardon my rudeness,” said Sant; “but really, that green is altogether too amazing.  It came as a shock.  What do you mean to do with it?”

Mr Watkins was collecting his resources.  Nothing could save the situation but decision.  “If you come here interrupting my work,” he said, “I’m a-goin’ to paint your face with it.”

Sant retired, for he was a humourist and a peaceful man.  Going down the hill he met Porson and Wainwright.  “Either that man is a genius or he is a dangerous lunatic,” said he.  “Just go up and look at his green.”  And he continued his way, his countenance brightened by a pleasant anticipation of a cheerful affray round an easel in the gloaming, and the shedding of much green paint.