I was drunk, and I've been drunk ever since."

"Ha! That accounts for your dirty collar," remarked Will, in his
note of dry drollery.

"Is it dirty?" said the other, passing a finger round his neck.
"What does it matter? A little dirt more or less, in a world so full
of it--"

Warburton could not contain himself; he laughed, and laughed again.
And his mirth was contagious; Franks chuckled, unwillingly,
dolefully.

"You are not extravagant in sympathy," said the artist, moving with
fretful nervousness.

"If I were, would it do you any good, old fellow? Look here, are we
to talk of this affair or not? Just as you like. For my part, I'd
rather talk about 'The Slummer.' I had a look at it the other day.
Uncommonly good, the blackguard on the curbstone, you've got him."

"You think so?" Franks sat a little straighter, but still with
vacant eye. "Yes, not bad, I think. But who knows whether I shall
finish the thing."

"If you don't," replied his friend, in a matter-of-fact tone,
"you'll do something better. But I should finish it, if I were you.
If you had the courage to paint in the right sort of face--the
girl, you know."