_Artist._ Ah--yes; that's it--that's it--just so. A little to the left.

I'm afraid--keep your head up--I cannot give you a very long sitting to-day--I'm so crowded with sitters. (Mr. B. forgets that he is sitting for his portrait and begins to look very melancholy and miserable.) I am obliged to--smile, if you please. (Mr. B. starts and resumes his exaggerated grin.) I'm obliged to fix certain days and hours to receive my friends and patrons, otherwise they--will you smile, if you please?--otherwise they would not leave me a--will you smile, if you please, sir? Look at me and think of something pleasant. Think of a lady (Mr. B. looks miserable and frightened). (Aside--He doesn't look as if he were thinking of a lady, does he?) Think of something pleasant, now--something pleasing. Think of _Hash_ (Mr. B. brightens up). Yes, hash. Keep on thinking of hash, hash, hash! Good gracious! will you smile, sir? Hash--hash--hash! Keep smiling--hash--that's it; hash!

There, sir, will you be kind enough to look at that? You are a little rough and raw (Mr. B. starts), but, of course, I have only rubbed you in. You will come out better at the second painting.

_Mr. B._ (rising and advancing towards the picture). Oh, yes--yes, very good. The shirt-collar and the cravat are extremely like; but don't you think you might alter the rest?

_Artist._ Well--ah--umph! I don't know. I think I have hit your eye exactly. (Mr. B. starts slightly.) The hair is very fair, and I've got hold of your nose very satisfactorily. (Mr. B. rubs his nose.) The mouth might look all the better, perhaps, for a little madder, but----

_Mr. B._ Oh, dear, no, it's quite mad enough. I don't wish to have a severe expression of countenance.

_Artist._ I refer to the color--the pigment.

_Mr. B._ The color the pig meant. The pig--the pig. I meant what I said, sir; and if you think to call me a pig with impunity you are very much mistaken.

_Artist._ Oh, no--no--no, my dear sir; you mistake me. We artists use a beautiful pink color called madder, and I spoke of this as a pigment--no offence, not for the world. But allow me to place the picture in a better light; you can hardly judge of it in its present position. (Turns easel and picture round facing the audience.) (Aside.)--Now won't he be an unreasonable old polypus to object to that as a likeness?

(Aloud.)--There, sir, now you can see it better. (They both sit down in chairs, the artist on his own palette and Mr. B. on the slice of bread and b.u.t.ter left by the artist.)

_Artist._ Now, sir, I think I have caught the expression of your eyes and spectacles; and as for the nose, it literally speaks, while the chin and mouth--

_Mr. B._ Yes--yes, but I don't think you have stuck quite closely enough to nature. There is nothing like sticking to a thing. (Rises and moves towards picture, showing slice of bread sticking to his coat-tails.

Advances and examines picture critically.)

_Artist._ I declare, if the idiotic old grampus has not been sitting down on my bread and b.u.t.ter. It is most extraordinary that some people will never look where they sit down. (Rises to remove bread and b.u.t.ter, and shows palette sticking to his dressing-gown behind.) The carelessness of some people is marvellous--really astonishing.

_Mr. B._ The shirt-collar is certainly very like; but don't you think the complexion is a little high? because I am really rather pale, you know.

_Artist_ (making futile endeavors to remove the bread and b.u.t.ter with one hand). Ah, yes, perhaps that might be toned down a little. (Aside.) I'll whitewash the old brute if he likes. (Aloud.) If you will be kind enough to take a seat for two minutes I will try to avail myself of your valuable suggestion (looks around for his palette). Now, where on earth can be my palette? (Looks suspiciously at old Mr. B.) He can't have been sitting down on that too--and yet I do believe he's stupid enough for anything. (Looks for palette again.) No. (At this moment Mr. B. sits down on the chair where Mr. P. has concealed his breakfast, and everything goes with a crash.)

_Artist._ There goes that old porpoise again! All my breakfast gone--my beautiful tea and my elegant bread and b.u.t.ter. (To Mr. B., who apologizes.) Ah, never mind, sir--no consequence; only a few paint saucers, that's all. No consequence; take a seat over here. (Seats old gent in the chair which Mr. B. first occupied, and which artist has since used.) But my palette--where can it have gone? Where's that d--d palette? Let me see; I think I laid it on that chair. Will you kindly rise for one moment, Mr. Winglebully? (Looks at Mr. B.'s back.) No!

strange--let me see--oh! ah! yes--I--he sat over there. (A thought seems to have struck him. He begins to feel behind his own coat, where he finds the palette. Produces it--his own fingers covered with paint.) There it is--I knew I'd put it somewhere. (Here a knocking is heard at the door. Mr. B. jumps up and grasps the artist by the hand, getting his own covered with paint in the operation.)

_Mr. B._ Here she is! For heaven's sake, conceal me!

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DRAMA OF "BULLYWINGLE."--_See page 180._]

_Artist._ Here is who?

_Mr. B._ The blue woman.

_Artist._ The blue woman?

_Mr. B._ Yes--they pursue me wherever I go. It's a blue woman now.

Yesterday it was a red woman. Oh, all sorts of women--black women--green women--white women--for pity's sake, conceal me! They'd make a Mormon or polygamist of me. (Wipes his painted fingers over his face.) Oh, my dear sir, you would not have me commit trigamy--you would not--but hide me somewhere--hide me!

_Artist._ Here--here, behind the curtain.

_Lady_ enters.

_Lady._ Is there a gentleman here?

_Artist._ Em--ah! gentleman? no--no; that is to say, not exactly.

_Lady._ This is an artist's studio, is it not?

_Artist._ Yes, madam; this is an artist's studio.

_Lady._ There is no other studio in this building?

_Artist._ This is the only studio in this building. Will you take a seat, madam?

_Lady._ I was to meet an elderly gentleman here--my father--who was going to have his portrait taken.

_Mr. B._ (aside.) Her father--that's a deep dodge. Pretends to be after her father, the artful thing.

_Artist._ Yes, madam.

_Lady._ He should have been here some time ago--that is to say, if I have come to the right place.

_Artist._ Ah, yes; this is the right place. (Aside.) Hooray! here's another job.

_Mr. B._ (aside.) Send her away! send her away! Ah, you villain, are you going to betray me?

_Lady._ You seem to have a great many pretty pictures here.

_Artist._ Ah--oh--well, a few little trifles. Are you fond of art?

_Lady._ Oh, yes--very.

_Artist._ I shall be happy to show you some of my sketches. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will bring them from the other room.

_Lady._ Certainly, It will give me great pleasure to look at anything in the shape of pictures. I once studied Poonah Painting and Potichomanie myself; and mamma's uncle, who was a great artist, and used to draw things with a red-hot poker, said he couldn't tell my pictures from life, almost--only I could never learn to do trees. Don't you find trees very difficult? Mamma's uncle used to say the only fault with my trees was that they looked like cabbages. I can paint cabbages very well; but then they don't look pretty in a picture, you know.

_Artist._ Indeed, I doubt not your delicate hand would lend a charm to any object it might portray. Nature is full of beauties, and there is a world of loveliness even in a cabbage.

_Mr. B._ (aside.) In a cabbage-head.

_Artist._ But I will bring you my portfolio--a few unworthy sketches which may serve to while away the moments till the arrival of your estimable father.

[Exit.

_Mr. B._ (aside.) Good heaven! He is going to keep me here all day while he makes a fool of himself to that young woman. This will never do! I must escape. I must throw myself on her mercy. She has an awful vicious expression of countenance, though. However, she must have the heart of a woman. Perhaps she has a brother; and how would she like to have him married against his will by fifteen women in blue? I will--yes, I will throw myself on her mercy. I will implore her to spare me. Poor thing! I shall be sorry to break her heart--but it must be done.----Courage, Bullywingle--courage! (Rushes out and throws himself at her feet.) My good young woman, spare me! Think of your own brother, and spare me!

[Lady screams and rushes off.

I cannot marry you all. If I did marry you I should make the red lady miserable for life, and the green lady would die of jealousy, and the yellow lady might commit suicide.

Enter _Artist_, with portfolio, which falls on the floor.

_Artist._ You venerable reptile, what are you about! What do you mean, sir? Get up, sir! I'll knock you down, sir! You've driven away one of my best customers. (They scuffle.)