Boxsious, "as a slight but sincere token"--and so forth. A
timely recommendation from one of my kindest friends and patrons
placed the commission for painting the likeness in my lucky
hands; and I was instructed to attend on a certain day at Mr.
Boxsious's private residence, with all my materials ready for
taking a first sitting.
On arriving at the house, I was shown into a very prettily
furnished morning-room. The bow-window looked out on a large
inclosed meadow, which represented the principal square in
Tidbury. On the opposite side of the meadow I could see the new
hotel (with a wing lately added), and close by, the old hotel
obstinately unchanged since it had first been built. Then,
further down the street, the doctor's house, with a colored lamp
and a small door-plate, and the banker's office, with a plain
lamp and a big door-plate--then some dreary private
lodging-houses--then, at right angles to these, a street of
shops; the cheese-monger's very small, the chemist's very smart,
the pastry-cook's very dowdy, and the green-grocer's very dark, I
was still looking out at the view thus presented, when I was
suddenly apostrophized by a glib, disputatious voice behind me.
"Now, then, Mr. Artist," cried the voice, "do you call that
getting ready for work? Where are your paints and brushes, and
all the rest of it? My name's Boxsious, and I'm here to sit for
my picture.
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