I explained that I had only just returned from my honeymoon, and introduced Marlowe to my wife. Marlowe roared approval in his characteristic way, and added:
“Come along on Friday—same old crowd, you know, and bring this man Lathom. I want to know him. He can paint .”
He spun round to face the picture again, and the crowd retired precipitately to avoid him.
“Well,” said a man’s voice, almost in my ear, “and how do you think it looks, now it’s hung?”
I spun round and saw Lathom, and with him, before I could adopt any suitable attitude to the situation, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, flung up from the waves of sightseers like the ball from a Rugby scrum.
Retreat was hopeless, because Marlowe now had me tightly by the shoulder, while with his other hand he sketched large, thumby gestures towards the portrait to indicate the modelling and brushwork.
“Hullo, Munting!” said Lathom.
“Hullo, Lathom!” I said, and added nervously, “Hullo-ullo-ullo!” like something by P. G. Wodehouse.
“Good God!” exploded Marlowe, “is this the man? The man and the model, by all that’s lucky,” he bellowed on, without waiting for my embarrassed answer. “I’m Marlowe; and I say you’ve done a good piece of work.”
Lathom came to my rescue by making a suitable acknowledgment of the great man’s condescension, and I was sliding away with a vague bow and a muttered remark about an engagement, when I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Harrison.