They had grown to like him, to accept him as almost one of themselves; though of course they looked down upon him with amused pity for his imbecility regarding his paintings.
"Get out of here," continued Hunt, "or cut out all this noise that comes from your having a brain that rattles.

I've got to work." Hunt turned again to his easel, and Old Jimmie, still grinning, lowered himself into a chair, lit a cigar, and winked at Barney.

Hunt, with brush poised, regarded Maggie a moment.
"You there, Maggie," he ordered, "chin up a bit more, some flash in your eyes, more pep in your bearing--as though you were asking all the dames of the Winter Garden, and the Charity Ball, and the Horse Show, and that gang of tea-swilling women at the Ritzmore you sell cigarettes to--as though you were asking them all who the dickens they think they are...

O God, can't you do anything!" "I'm doing the best I can, and I look more like those dames than you look like a painter!" "Shut up! I'm paying you a dollar an hour to pose, not to talk back to me.

And you'd have more respect for my money if you knew how hard I had to work to earn it: carrying a motor car around in each hand.