"If you're satisfied, I've got nothing to say."

"Satisfied--of course I'm satisfied--" A tolerant, almost condescending
smile stole over David's eyes and mouth. "You don't understand--artists,
Knott."

"Perhaps not, perhaps not." Knott pulled out his watch. "Anything doing
in your own line, Saunderson?" he asked in a tone of careful
indifference.

David puffed at his pipe.

"I'm not very busy--but--you know--that's rather a good thing--now I'm a
special constable."

Peter Knott's single eyeglass wandered over the unwieldy frame sitting
opposite him.

"A special constable?" he echoed.

David puffed complacently.

"Sergeant," he replied.

Peter Knott dropped his glass.

"Really, you know, Saunderson. For a man at your time of life, and
obliged to work for his living, it's--" He hesitated. "Well, you oughtn't
to do it."