REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Ah!

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

A year or two ago the girl turned up again—­walked into my studio, and wanted to sit to me.  As it happened I could have used her very well.  Just as I had given her a drink who should march in too, but my wife.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

The devil.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

I said my wife—­but—­

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Yes, go on.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

She recognised my visitor in a moment from the photograph—­abused her, insulted me, and raised a royal row.  The girl cleared out like a shot, and I pledge you my word I have never seen her since, but from that hour to this not a day passes without Mrs. Sylvester making some allusion to the incident.  I am the most moral man alive, and I’m watched and suspected as if I were a criminal.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

We must see more of each other than we have of late.  When I work in your studio we shall be company for each other.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

I shall be very glad.  Well, I’ll be off, now.  See you to-morrow then?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

To-morrow!  Au revoir, dear boy.

(Exit SYLVESTER.)

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Poor old Sylvester!  Had no idea Mrs. Sylvester was such a termagant.  I must cheer him up a bit.  So there was a girl, was there, and Mrs. Sylvester is jealous of her?  Wonder who she was!  Nice girl I daresay—­Sylvester’s taste was always good excepting when he married.  Where is Bob with my model?—­time he was back! (Goes to window.) There goes Sylvester—­funny thing you can always tell a married man by his walk.  There is a solidity about it—­a sort of resignation. (Turns looking off the other way.) And here comes a pretty girl.—­What a pretty girl—­Funny thing you can always tell a pretty girl by her walk.  There is a consciousness about it—­a thanksgiving.  She is stopping here.  Lovely woman stopping here!

(Throws up window, and leans out more and more till gradually only a small section of his legs remain on the stage)

ROSALINE (off).

Is this Mr. Tempenny’s studio?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It is.  I am Mr. Tempenny.  Come up do.

ROSALINE.

No kid?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Not yet—­I am recently married.

ROSALINE.

I mean you are really Mr. Tempenny.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Really and truly. (Withdraws from window, wreathed in smiles.) How do I look? (Smoothes his hair before mirror.) Perhaps she is a buyer—­I had better appear busy—­or inspired. (Seats himself and adopts a far-away engrossed expression.) “Rembrandt Tempenny at Home.”

Knock at door.  Enter ROSALINE.

ROSALINE.

May I come in?