Ricky said: “Hullo, again. I hope you don’t mind my looking on for a moment.”

There was movement in the whiskers and a dull sound. The painter had opened his matchbox and found it empty.

“Got a light?” Ricky thought must have been said.

He descended the steps and offered his lighter. The painter used it and returned to packing up his gear.

“Do you find,” Ricky asked, fishing for something to say that wouldn’t be utterly despised, “do you find this place stimulating? For painting, I mean.”

“At least,” the voice said, “it isn’t bloody picturesque. I get power from it. It works for me.”

“Could I have seen some of your things up at L’Espérance — the Pharamonds’ house?”

He seemed to take another long stare at Ricky and then said: “I sold a few things to some woman the other day. Street show in Montjoy. A white sort of woman with black hair. Talked a lot of balls, of course. They always do. But she wasn’t bad, figuratively speaking. Worth the odd grope.”

Ricky suddenly felt inclined to kick him.

“Oh, well,” he said. “I’ll be moving on.”

“You staying here?”

“Yes.”

“For long?”

“I don’t know,” he said, turning away.

The painter seemed to be one of those people whose friendliness increases in inverse ratio to the warmth of its reception.

“What’s your hurry?” he asked.

“I’ve got some work to do,” Ricky said.

“Work?”

“That’s right. Good evening to you.”

“You write, don’t you?”

“Try to,” he said over his shoulder.

The young man raised his voice. “That’s what Gil Ferrant makes out, anyway. He reckons you write.”

Ricky walked on without further comment.

On the way back he reflected that it was highly possible every person in the village knew by this time that he lodged with the Ferrants — and tried to write.