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.

Ebag.  I’ve been buying some very delightful little things of yours from a man that calls himself a picture-dealer and frame-maker (ironically) in the High Street here.  I persuaded him—­not without difficulty—­to give me your address.  And I’ve ventured to call just to see if by chance you have anything for sale.

Carve.  By chance I haven’t!

Ebag.  Nothing at all?

Carve.  Not a square inch.

Ebag. (Catching sight of Janet’s portrait.) Pardon me.  May I look?

Janet.  Oh, do!

Ebag.  A brilliant likeness.

Janet.  Who of?

Ebag.  Why, madam—­yourself?  The attitude is extraordinarily expressive.  And if I may say so (glancing at carve) the placing of the high lights—­those white sleevelets—­what d’you call them?

Janet.  Why!  Those are my cooking-sleeves!

Ebag. (Quietly.) Yes—­well—­it’s genius—­mere genius.

Janet. (Looking at picture afresh) It is rather pretty when you come to look at it.