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.”

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.  If you were fifty times as irritable a man as you look, you couldn’t quarrel with me.  I’m not young, and I’m not touchy—­I’m Boxsious, the lawyer; the only man in the world who can’t be insulted, try it how you like!”

He chuckled as he said this, and walked away to the window.  It was quite useless to take anything he said seriously, so I finished preparing my palette for the morning’s work with the utmost serenity of look and manner that I could possibly assume.