Take away the whiskey, it has served its turn, and give Bessie
thirty-six quid, and three over for luck. Cover the picture."
He dropped asleep in the long chair, hid face white and haggard, almost before
he had finished the sentence. Bessie tried to take Torpenhow"s hand. "Aren't
you never going to speak to me any more?" she said; but Torpenhow was looking
at Dick.
"What a stock of vanity the man has! I'll take him in hand tomorrow and make
much of him. He deserves it.--Eh! what was that, Bess?"
"Nothing. I'll put things tidy here a little, and then I'll go. You couldn't
give the that three months" pay now, could you? He said you were to."
Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his own rooms. Bessie faithfully tidied
up the studio, set the door ajar for flight, emptied half a bottle of
turpentine on a duster, and began to scrub the face of the Melancolia
viciously. The paint did not smudge quickly enough. She took a palette-knife
and scraped, following each stroke with the wet duster. In five minutes the
picture was a formless, scarred muddle of colours. She threw the paint-stained
duster into the studio stove, stuck out her tongue at the sleeper, and
whispered, "Bilked!" as she turned to run down the staircase.
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