Reynolds had remained long enough—it was time for him to go.
He went back to Devonshire, and Craunch, the biggest man in Plympton, took him over to Lord Edgecumbe, the biggest man in Plymouth.
Craunch carried along the portrait of himself that Joshua had made, and asked milord if he didn't want one just like it. Edgecumbe said he surely did, and asked Joshua if he painted the picture all alone by himself.
Joshua smiled.
Lord Edgecumbe had a beautiful house, and to have a good picture of himself, and a few choice old ancestors on the walls, he thought would be very fine.
Joshua took up his abode in the Edgecumbe mansion, the better to do his work.
He was a handsome youth, nearly twenty years old, with bright, beaming eyes, a slight but compact form, and brown curls that came to his shoulders. His London life had given him a confidence in himself, and in his manner there was a grace and poise flavored with a becoming diffidence.
A man who can do things well should assume a modesty, even if he has it not. If you can write well, do not talk—leave that to the man who can do nothing else. If you can paint, let your work speak for you.
Joshua Reynolds was young, but he was an artist in diplomacy. His talent, his modesty, his youth, his beauty, won the hearts of the entire Edgecumbe household.
He painted portraits of all the family; and of course all the visitors were called upon to admire, not only the pictures, but the painter as well.