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.
EBAG.
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