‘To put a hundred pounds into the hands of—’
‘A better man than myself,’ said my brother, ‘of course.’
‘And have you come up at your own expense?’
‘Yes,’ said my brother, ‘I have come up at my own expense.’
I made no answer, but looked in my brother’s face. We then returned to the former subjects of conversation, talking of the dead, my mother, and the dog.
After some time my brother said, ’I will now go to the painter, and communicate to him the business which has brought me to town; and, if you please, I will take you with me and introduce you to him.’ Having expressed my willingness, we descended into the street.
Painter of the heroic—I’ll go!—A modest peep—Who is this?—A capital Pharaoh—Disproportionably short—Imaginary picture—English figures.
The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western end of the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission to him; a maid-servant, who opened the door, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously: it was not until my brother had said that he was a friend of the painter that we were permitted to pass the threshold. At length we were shown into the studio, where we found the painter, with an easel and brush, standing before a huge piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced painting a heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years old; he had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp gray eye—his hair was dark brown, and cut a-la-Rafael, as I was subsequently told, that is, there was little before and much behind—he did not wear a neck-cloth; but, in its stead, a black riband, so that his neck, which was rather fine, was somewhat exposed—he had a broad, muscular breast, and I make no doubt that he would have been a very fine figure, but unfortunately his legs and thighs were somewhat short. He recognised my brother, and appeared glad to see him.
‘What brings you to London?’ said he.