Generally he met a prompt rebuff; but if the fair was so
unlucky as to hesitate a single moment, he told her a melting tale; he
had once driven his four-in-hand; but by indorsing his friends' bills,
was reduced to painting likeness, admirable likenesses in oil, only a
guinea each.
His piteous tale provoked more gibes than pity, but as he had no shame,
the rebuffs went for nothing: he actually did get a few sitters by his
audacity: and some of the sitters actually took the pictures, and paid
for them; others declined them with fury as soon as they were finished.
These he took back with a piteous sigh, that sometimes extracted half
a crown. Then he painted over the rejected one and let it dry; so that
sometimes a paid portrait would present a beauty enthroned on the debris
of two or three rivals, and that is where few beauties would object to
sit.
All this time he wrote nice letters to Phoebe, and adopted the tone
of the struggling artist, and the true lover, who wins his bride by
patience, perseverance, and indomitable industry; a babbled of "Self
Help."
Meantime, Phoebe was not idle: an excellent business woman, she took
immediate advantage of a new station that was built near the farm, to
send up milk, butter, and eggs to London.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200