It is sad to think few men know their own profile. I once had some very unpleasant moments with a cavalry officer owing to our difference of opinion as to the contour of his legs, and the set of his trousers. He came to my studio looking rather like a musical comedy colonel (although he was a soldier to the backbone), very smart with his perfectly tailored clothes, very tight trousers, immaculate shoes and very well groomed throughout, very typical of the sort of man an actor would delight in as a model. His entrance to my studio was just as full of dash, with great éclat he gave himself into my hands, saying, "Do what you like with me, I don't mind anything. Have a good old shot at me just for a joke—I'm a bit of a caricaturist myself."
After standing a little while he grew tired, and as is frequently the case, self-conscious, and began to wonder why he came, and in consequence became rather depressed. A spell of fidgeting seized him, and he expressed a desire to see the drawing, which I informed him was against the rules.
"Oh, damn it all, let's have a look," he expostulated, and to keep him quiet I was obliged to show him my work.
"Hang it, I didn't come here to be made a pigmy of!" he shouted. "You'd better put a bit on the legs—they're not like that!"
It was getting near lunch time, so I went on working for another five minutes or so, when presently he wanted to look again. Remonstrating, I said, "You'll spoil the drawing if you keep on interrupting."
But he insisted upon another glance to reassure himself; this time he was angry.
"I'm not coming here to have the Queen's uniform insulted!" and looking deeper into the drawing: "and my nose doesn't turn round the corner like that."
I expostulated, and presently he stood once more. After the same brief interval he bounced over again.
"I won't have the Queen's uniform ridiculed. My ears are not so large as that—you must cut a bit off them...."
At this I retired to the sofa, tired out, and determined to settle my recalcitrant soldier.