Before I got to the shop, I met Mr. Batterbury taking his walking exercise.  He stopped, shook hands with me affectionately, and asked where I was going.  A wonderful idea struck me.  Instead of answering his question, I asked after Lady Malkinshaw.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Batterbury; “her ladyship tumbled downstairs yesterday morning.”

“My dear sir, allow me to congratulate you!”

“Most fortunately,” continued Mr. Batterbury, with a strong emphasis on the words, and a fixed stare at me; “most fortunately, the servant had been careless enough to leave a large bundle of clothes for the wash at the foot of the stairs, while she went to answer the door.  Falling headlong from the landing, her ladyship pitched (pardon me the expression)—­pitched into the very middle of the bundle.  She was a little shaken at the time, but is reported to be going on charmingly this morning.  Most fortunate, was it not?  Seen the papers?  Awful news from Demerara—­the yellow fever—­”

“I wish I was at Demerara,” I said, in a hollow voice.

“You!  Why?” exclaimed Mr. Batterbury, aghast.

“I am homeless, friendless, penniless,” I went on, getting more hollow at every word.  “All my intellectual instincts tell me that I could retrieve my position and live respectably in the world, if I might only try my hand at portrait-painting—­the thing of all others that I am naturally fittest for.  But I have nobody to start me; no sitter to give me a first chance; nothing in my pocket but three-and-sixpence; and nothing in my mind but a doubt whether I shall struggle on a little longer, or end it immediately in the Thames.  Don’t let me detain you from your walk, my dear sir.  I’m afraid Lady Malkinshaw will outlive me, after all!”

“Stop!” cried Mr. Batterbury; his mahogany face actually getting white with alarm.  “Stop!  Don’t talk in that dreadfully unprincipled manner—­don’t, I implore, I insist!  You have plenty of friends—­you have me, and your sister.  Take to portrait-painting—­think of your family, and take to portrait-painting!”

“Where am I to get a sitter?’ I inquired, with a gloomy shake of the head.

“Me,” said Mr. Batterbury, with an effort.  “I’ll be your first sitter.  As a beginner, and especially to a member of the family, I suppose your terms will be moderate.  Small beginnings—­you know the proverb?” Here he stopped; and a miserly leer puckered up his mahogany cheeks.

“I’ll do you, life-size, down to your waistcoat, for fifty pounds,” said I.

Mr. Batterbury winced, and looked about him to the right and left, as if he wanted to run away.  He had five thousand a year, but he contrived to took, at that moment, as if his utmost income was five hundred.  I walked on a few steps.

“Surely those terms are rather high to begin with?” he said, walking after me.  “I should have thought five-and-thirty, or perhaps forty—­”