Wellwyn.  Oh!  One each!  I wonder if they’ll like it.

Ann.  They’ll have to lump it.

     [She goes out into the house.]

Wellwyn. [Back at his easel.] You can shut your mouth now.

     [Mrs. Megan shuts her mouth, but opens it immediately to smile.]

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.