My girls have pride in it,
Martin! This,' opening another door, 'is the little chamber in which my
works (slight things at best) have been concocted. Portrait of myself
by Spiller. Bust by Spoker. The latter is considered a good likeness.
I seem to recognize something about the left-hand corner of the nose,
myself.'
Martin thought it was very like, but scarcely intellectual enough. Mr
Pecksniff observed that the same fault had been found with it before. It
was remarkable it should have struck his young relation too. He was glad
to see he had an eye for art.
'Various books you observe,' said Mr Pecksniff, waving his hand towards
the wall, 'connected with our pursuit. I have scribbled myself, but
have not yet published. Be careful how you come upstairs. This,' opening
another door, 'is my chamber. I read here when the family suppose I have
retired to rest. Sometimes I injure my health rather more than I can
quite justify to myself, by doing so; but art is long and time is short.
Every facility you see for jotting down crude notions, even here.'
These latter words were explained by his pointing to a small round table
on which were a lamp, divers sheets of paper, a piece of India rubber,
and a case of instruments; all put ready, in case an architectural idea
should come into Mr Pecksniff's head in the night; in which event he
would instantly leap out of bed, and fix it for ever.
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