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.

Timson. [Faintly waving the brushes.] Of course, if you can’t afford it, I don’t press you—­it’s only that I feel I’m not doing meself justice. [Confidentially.] There’s just one thing, sir; I can’t bear to see a gen’leman imposed on.  That foreigner—­’e’s not the sort to ’ave about the place.  Talk?  Oh! ah!  But ’e’ll never do any good with ’imself.  He’s a alien.

Wellwyn.  Terrible misfortune to a fellow, Timson.

Timson.  Don’t you believe it, sir; it’s his fault I says to the young lady yesterday:  Miss Ann, your father’s a gen’leman [with a sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are—­I don’t mind sayin’ it—­but, I said, he’s too easy-goin’.

Wellwyn.  Indeed!

Timson.  Well, see that girl now! [He shakes his head.] I never did believe in goin’ behind a person’s back—­I’m an Englishman—­but [lowering his voice] she’s a bad hat, sir.  Why, look at the street she comes from!

Wellwyn.  Oh! you know it.

Timson.  Lived there meself larst three years.  See the difference a few days’ corn’s made in her.  She’s that saucy you can’t touch ’er head.