“Sit down.”
William sat down.
“Now I’m going to draw you,” went on the artist. “I’m a genius whose immortal masterpieces are but inadequately recognised by his generation, therefore perforce I eke out a modest livelihood illustrating magazine stories, and some idiot here,” he touched a manuscript, “has written one about a boy. Fancy writing a story about a boy. Now where shall I find a boy? thought I. I wish I had a boy, and lo! a boy appears.... Keep still, boy. Stand just so ... look here ... and keep quite still.”
William, his brain working quickly, stood just so, looked there and kept quite still.
The artist sketched in silence, putting William into various postures. At the end he passed him the sketches for his inspection. William gazed at them coldly.
“Not much like me,” he commented.
“Think not?” said the artist, “probably you have an idealised conception of your appearance.”
William looked at him suspiciously.
“I’ve not got anythin’ like what you said,” he remarked, “never even heard of it so I can’t have. Would you like a man to drive your motor-car?”
“I’ve not got a motor-car,” said the artist, busily engaged in putting finishing touches into his sketch.