“A gentleman, sir, cannot condescend to bargain,” said I, with mournful dignity.  “Farewell!” I waved my hand, and crossed over the way.

“Don’t do that!” cried Mr. Batterbury.  “I accept.  Give me your address.  I’ll come tomorrow.  Will it include the frame!  There! there! it doesn’t include the frame, of course.  Where are you going now?  To the colorman?  He doesn’t live in the Strand, I hope—­or near one of the bridges.  Think of Annabella, think of the family, think of the fifty pounds—­an income, a year’s income to a prudent man.  Pray, pray be careful, and compose your mind:  promise me, my dear, dear fellow—­promise me, on your word of honor, to compose your mind!”

I left him still harping on that string, and suffering, I believe, the only serious attack of mental distress that had ever affected him in the whole course of his life.

Behold me, then, now starting afresh in the world, in the character of a portrait-painter; with the payment of my remuneration from my first sitter depending whimsically on the life of my grandmother.  If you care to know how Lady Malkinshaw’s health got on, and how I succeeded in my new profession, you have only to follow the further course of these confessions, in the next chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

I gave my orders to the colorman, and settled matters with my friend the artist that day.

The next morning, before the hour at which I expected my sitter, having just now as much interest in the life of Lady Malkinshaw as Mr. Batterbury had in her death, I went to make kind inquiries after her ladyship’s health.  The answer was most reassuring.  Lady Malkinshaw had no present intention of permitting me to survive her.  She was, at that very moment, meritoriously and heartily engaged in eating her breakfast.  My prospects being now of the best possible kind, I felt encouraged to write once more to my father, telling him of my fresh start in life, and proposing a renewal of our acquaintance.  I regret to say that he was so rude as not to answer my letter.

Mr. Batterbury was punctual to the moment.  He gave a gasp of relief when he beheld me, full of life, with my palette on my thumb, gazing fondly on my new canvas.

“That’s right!” he said.  “I like to see you with your mind composed.  Annabella would have come with me; but she has a little headache this morning.  She sends her love and best wishes.”

I seized my chalks and began with that confidence in myself which has never forsaken me in any emergency.  Being perfectly well aware of the absolute dependence of the art of portrait-painting on the art of flattery, I determined to start with making the mere outline of my likeness a compliment to my sitter.