PASCOE. (After a pause.) He doesn't seem to me from the look of him to
be a man who'd--shall we say?--strictly avoided women.
CARVE. (Startled, with a gesture towards back.) Him?
(PASCOE nods.)
Really! Confound him! Now I've always suspected that; though he manages
to keep his goings-on devilish quiet.
PASCOE. (Rising.) It occurs to me, my friend, that I'm listening to
too much. But you're so persuasive.
CARVE. It's such a pleasure to talk freely--for once in a way.
PASCOE. Freely--is the word.
CARVE. Oh! He won't mind!
PASCOE. (In a peculiar tone.) It's quite possible!
(Enter HORNING.)
HORNING. (To Carve.) I say, it's just occurred to me, Mr. Carve hasn't
been digging or gardening or anything, I suppose, and then taken cold
after?
CARVE. Digging? Oh no. He must have got a bad chill on the steamer. Why?
HORNING. Nothing. Only his hands and finger-nails are so rough.
CARVE. (After thinking.) Oh, I see! All artists are like that. Messing
about with paints and acids and things.
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