"
I turned round, and confronted a little man with his legs
astraddle, and his hands in his pockets. He had light-gray eyes,
red all round the lids, bristling pepper-colored hair, an
unnaturally rosy complexion, and an eager, impudent, clever look.
I made two discoveries in one glance at him: First, that he was a
wretched subject for a portrait; secondly, that, whatever he
might do or say, it would not be of the least use for me to stand
on my dignity with him.
"I shall be ready directly, sir," said I.
"Ready directly?" repeated my new sitter. "What do you mean, Mr.
Artist, by ready directly? I'm ready now. What was your contract
with the Town Council, who have subscribed for this picture? To
paint the portrait. And what was my contract? To sit for it. Here
am I ready to sit, and there are you not ready to paint me.
According to all the rules of law and logic, you are committing a
breach of contract already. Stop! let's have a look at your
paints. Are they the best quality? If not, I warn you, sir,
there's a second breach of contract! Brushes, too? Why, they're
old brushes, by the Lord Harry! The Town Council pays you well,
Mr. Artist; why don't you work for them with new brushes? What?
you work best with old? I contend, sir, that you can't. Does my
housemaid clean best with an old broom? Do my clerks write best
with old pens? Don't color up, and don't look as if you were
going to quarrel with me! You can't quarrel with me.
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