Next day, in the afternoon, having bustled through my daily programme of business, I betook myself with curious pleasure to my appointment with Pintal.  To my regret, at first, I found him alone; but I derived consolation from the assurance, that, wherever the engaging boy had gone, his mother had accompanied him.  Even more than at my first visit, the artist was frigidly reserved and full of warning-off politeness.  With but a brief prelude of courteous commonplaces, he called me to the business of my visit.

My picture, as I have said, was a fairly executed steel engraving, taken from some one of the thousands of “Tokens,” or “Keepsakes,” or “Amulets,” or “Gems,” or such like harmless giftbooks, with which youths of tender sentiment remind preoccupied damsels of their careful penchants.  It represented an “airy, fairy Lilian” of eighteen, or thereabouts, lolling coquettishly, fan in hand, in an antique, high-backed chair, with “carven imageries,” and a tasselled cushion.  She rejoiced in a profusion of brown ringlets, and her costume was pretty and quaint,—­a dainty chemisette, barred with narrow bands of velvet, as though she had gone to Switzerland, or the South of Italy, for the sentiment of her bodice,—­sleeves quaintly puffed and “slashed,”—­the ample skirt looped up with rosettes and natty little ends of ribbon; her feet beneath her petticoat, “like little mice,” stole out, “as if they feared the light.”  Somewhere, among the many editions of Dickens’s works, I have seen a Dolly Varden that resembled her.

It was agreed between us that she should be reproduced in a life-size portrait, with such a distribution of rich colors as the subject seemed to call for, as his fine taste might select, and his cunning hand lay on.  I sought to break down his reserve, and make myself acceptable to him, by the display of a discreet geniality, and a certain frankness, not falling into familiarity, which should seem to proceed from sympathy, and a bonhommie, that, assured of its own kindly purpose, would take no account of his almost angry distance.  The opportunity was auspicious, and I was on the alert to turn it to account.  I made a little story of the picture, and touched it with romance.  I told him of Virginia,—­especially of that part of the State in which this saucy little lady lived,—­of its famous scenery, its historic places, and the peculiar features of its society.  I strove to make the lady present to his mind’s eye by dwelling on her certain eccentricities, and helping my somewhat particular description of her character with anecdotes, more or less pointed and amusing, especially to so grave a foreigner, of her singular ready-wittedness and graceful audacity.  Then I had much to say about her little “ways” of attitude, gesture, and expression, and some hints to offer for slight changes in the finer lines of the face, and in the expression, which might make the likeness more real to both of us, and, by getting up an interest in him for the picture, procure his favorable impression for myself.