It was much easier to resolve on doing this than really to do it.  In the first place, my hand would relapse into its wicked old caricaturing habits.  In the second place, my brother-in-law’s face was so inveterately and completely ugly as to set every artifice of pictorial improvement at flat defiance.  When a man has a nose an inch long, with the nostrils set perpendicularly, it is impossible to flatter it—­you must either change it into a fancy nose, or resignedly acquiesce in it.  When a man has no perceptible eyelids, and when his eyes globularly project so far out of his head, that you expect to have to pick them up for him whenever you see him lean forward, how are mortal fingers and bushes to diffuse the right complimentary expression over them?  You must either do them the most hideous and complete justice, or give them up altogether.  The late Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A., was undoubtedly the most artful and uncompromising flatterer that ever smoothed out all the natural characteristic blemishes from a sitter’s face; but even that accomplished parasite would have found Mr. Batterbury too much for him, and would have been driven, for the first time in his practice of art, to the uncustomary and uncourtly resource of absolutely painting a genuine likeness.

As for me, I put my trust in Lady Malkinshaw’s power of living, and portrayed the face of Mr. Batterbury in all its native horror.  At the same time, I sensibly guarded against even the most improbable accidents, by making him pay me the fifty pounds as we went on, by installments.  We had ten sittings.  Each one of them began with a message from Mr. Batterbury, giving me Annabella’s love and apologies for not being able to come and see me.  Each one of them ended with an argument between Mr. Batterbury and me relative to the transfer of five pounds from his pocket to mine.  I came off victorious on every occasion—­being backed by the noble behavior of Lady Malkinshaw, who abstained from tumbling down, and who ate and drank, and slept and grew lusty, for three weeks together.  Venerable woman!  She put fifty pounds into my pocket.  I shall think of her with gratitude and respect to the end of my days.

One morning, while I was sitting before my completed portrait, inwardly shuddering over the ugliness of it, a suffocating smell of musk was wafted into the studio; it was followed by a sound of rustling garments; and that again was succeeded by the personal appearance of my affectionate sister, with her husband at her heels.  Annabella had got to the end of her stock of apologies, and had come to see me.

She put her handkerchief to her nose the moment she entered the room.

“How do you do, Frank?  Don’t kiss me:  you smell of paint, and I can’t bear it.”

I felt a similar antipathy to the smell of musk, and had not the slightest intention of kissing her; but I was too gallant a man to say so; and I only begged her to favor me by looking at her husband’s portrait.