"It's... all right," he conceded as they came out from between the decaying buildings and the green hoardings, "but..." he smiled and looked at Slater, "don't give up your day job."

"And don't you quote my own lines back at me, you young pup!"

"Okay," Graham said, looking at Slater again. "Stick to ceramics."

"You make me sound like a glaze."

"That's your expression."

"Oh-ho," Slater said, "well, touche, or toushe, anyway." He stopped by the pedestrian crossing which led over Rosebery Avenue to the square, red-brick building of the Air Gallery. Graham turned to face him. "But don't you like the latest scenario?"

"Well," Graham said slowly, deciding he had better say something nice, "it's good, but perhaps it needs a little work."

"Huh," Slater said, stepping back and rolling his eyes. He came forward again, eyes narrowed, pushing his face close to Graham's so that the younger man shrank back just a little." 'A little work', eh? Well, bang goes your commission from the National Portrait Gallery when I'm famous."

"Are you going over there?" Graham indicated the far side of the road.

Slater slouched a little and nodded, looking over the road to the gallery.

"I suppose so. You're trying to get rid of me, aren't you?"

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are. You've been hurrying me all the way."

"No, I wasn't," Graham protested. "It's just that you walk slowly."

"I was talking to you."

"Well, I can walk and listen at the same time."