division.

In the studio with Beverley she found Reginald Sellers, standing in a
critical attitude before the easel. She was not very fond of him. He
was a long, offensive, patronizing person, with a moustache that looked
like a smear of charcoal, and a habit of addressing her as 'Ah, little
one!'

Beverley looked up.

'Have you brought your hatchet, Miss Brougham? If you have, you're just
in time to join in the massacre of the innocents. Sellers has been
smiting my child and cat hip and thigh. Look at his eye. There! Did you
see it flash then? He's on the warpath again.'

'My dear Beverley,' said Sellers, rather stiffly, 'I am merely
endeavouring to give you my idea of the picture's defects. I am sorry
if my criticism has to be a little harsh.'

'Go right on,' said Beverley, cordially. 'Don't mind me; it's all for
my good.'

'Well, in a word, then, it is lifeless. Neither the child nor the cat
lives.'

He stepped back a pace and made a frame of his hands.

'The cat now,' he said. 'It is--how shall I put it? It has
no--no--er--'