ter----

CARVE. What's that?

EBAG. Master!

(Pause.)

CARVE. (Impulsively.) Look here! I never could stick being called
"master"! It's worse even than "maitre." Have a cigarette? How did you
find out who I was?

EBAG. (Pointing to Janet's portrait.) Isn't that proof enough?

CARVE. Yes, but you knew before you saw that.

EBAG. (After lighting-cigarette.) I did. I knew from the very first
picture I bought from our friend the "picture-dealer and frame-maker" in
the early part of last year.

CARVE. But I'd completely altered my style. I altered it on purpose.

EBAG. (Shaking his head.) My dear sir, there was once a well-known man
who stood six feet ten inches high. He shaved off his beard and dyed his
hair, and invented a very ingenious costume, and went to a Fancy Dress
Ball as Tom Thumb. Strange to say, his disguise was penetrated
immediately.

CARVE. Who are you?

EBAG. My name is Ebag--New Bond Street.

CARVE. What! You're my old dealer!

EBAG. And I'm delighted at last to make your acquaintance, sir. It
wasn't until I'd bought several of those small canvases from the Putney
man that I began to inquire closely into their origin. As a general rule
it's a mistake for a dealer to be too curious. But my curiosity got the
better of me. And when I found out that the pictures were being produced
week by week, fresh, then I knew I was on the edge of some mystery.

CARVE. (Awkwardly.) The fact is, perhaps, I ought to explain.

EBAG. Pardon me. I ask nothing. It isn't my affair. I felt certain,
solely from the evidence of what I was buying, that the great painter
who was supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and whose somewhat
premature funeral I attended, must be alive and painting vigorously. I
wanted the assurance from your lips. I have it. The rest does not
concern me--at any rate, for the moment.

CARVE. I'll say this--you know a picture when you see it.

EBAG. (Proudly.) I am an expert, nothing else.

CARVE. All right! Well, I'll only ask you to persevere in your
discretion. As you say, it isn't your affair. Thank goodness, I didn't
put a date on any of these things. I won't sell any more. I'd take an
oath never to paint again, only I know I should go and break it next
week. I shall rely on this famous discretion of yours to say
nothing--nothing whatever.

EBAG. I'm afraid it's too late.

CARVE. How too late?

EBAG. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to state publicly that you are
I