‘Why, because you’ve got to keep up a standard. Look at my house. It’s ruinous, but I’ve got to be able to ask the people that count to a place they’ll accept and, if possible, remember. You’ve got to look prosperous in this game, and you’ve got to entertain. My agent’s fees are hellish. My clubs cost the earth. And like a blasted fool I backed a show that flopped for thousands last May.’

‘What did you do that for?’

‘The management are friends of mine. It looked all right.’

‘You give money away, Seb, don’t you? I mean literally. To out-of-luck actors? Old-timers and so on?’

‘I may. Always think “there but for the grace of God!” It’s such a damn’ chancy business.’

‘Yes. No more chancy than painting, my lad.’

‘You don’t have to show so well if you’re an artist. People expect you to live in a peculiar way.’

Cubitt looked at him, but said nothing.

Parish went on defensively: ‘I’m sorry, but you know what I mean. People expect painters to be Bohemians and all that.’

‘There was a time,’ said Cubitt, ‘when actors were content to be Bohemians, whatever that may mean. I never know. As far as I am concerned it means going without things you want.’

‘But your pictures sell.’

‘On an average I sell six pictures a year. Their prices range from twenty pounds to two hundred. It usually works out at about four hundred. You earn that in as many weeks, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Oh, I’m not grumbling. I’ve got a bit of my own and I could make more, I dare say, if I took pupils or had a shot at commercial art. I’ve suited myself and it’s worked out well enough until—’

‘Until what?’ asked Parish.

‘Nothing. Let’s get on with the work, shall we? The light’s no good after about eleven.’

Parish walked back to the rock and took up his pose. The light wind whipped his black hair from his forehead. He raised his chin and stared out over the sea. He assumed an expression of brooding dominance.

‘That right?’ he asked.

‘Pretty well. You only want a pair of tarnished epaulettes and we could call it “Elba.”’

‘I’ve always thought I’d like to play Napoleon.’

‘A fat lot you know about Napoleon.’

Parish grinned tranquilly.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’d read him up a bit if I had to. As a matter of fact Luke looks rather like him.’

‘The shoulders should come round,’ said Cubitt. ‘That’s more like it. Yes, Luke is rather the type.’

He painted for a minute or two in silence, and then Parish suddenly laughed.

‘What’s up?’ asked Cubitt.

‘Here comes your girl.’

‘What the devil do you mean?’ demanded Cubitt angrily and looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh—I see.’