er'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.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

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.

Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his commission. At the
mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the eyes of the painter
glisten. 'Really,' said he, when my brother had concluded, 'it was very
kind to think of me. I am not very fond of painting portraits; but a
mayor is a mayor, and there is something grand in that idea of the Norman
arch. I'll go; moreover, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need
of money, and when you knocked at the door, I don't mind telling you, I
thought it was some dun. I don't know how it is, but in the capital they
have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a heroic picture;
I am glad to hear that they have better taste in the provinces. I'll go;
when shall we set off?'

Thereupon it was