“Yes, I see it; it’s a picture, and a very pretty one, too—a likeness of somebody, I ’spose?”
“A likeness of yourself, my man,” said Bourne, in high glee.
“Of me?”
“Most certainly, and an admirable one it is, or was, for it was taken about twenty years ago. It must have been wonderfully like at that time—I should say most remarkably like the original.”
“Not having seen the original I can’t say,” said Bill, perfectly unmoved.
“The original is yourself, my man.”
Bill shook his head.
“That won’t do; look at the nose, it’s a mile too long, and the picture is not in any way like me—leastways as far as I can see—but if you say it is, of course I give in to your superior judgment.”
“I say it is a portrait of William Rawton, and that you are he.”
“Very good—have it your own way. It does not make much difference to me. I don’t quite see what you are driving at, but that is of no great consequence, I suppose?”