Come, painter-man! The tea's cold.

And it's growing dark.

We'd better light the lamp." With the tea-pot singing again on the fire and the lamp lighted, Kenny, but momentarily tractable, had another interval of rebellion.

Joan, in New York, might better be his wife.

Joan, studying, might better have him near to talk his sort of nonsense, listen to her music and make love volubly in French to which she needed the practice of reply.