your disposal."

Mr. Greville was profuse in his thanks.

"Shall I send it to your house?" said the picture framer.

"No, Mr. Tennant," replied the merchant. "It is too valuable to be
trusted out of my hands. I am personally responsible, and I fear that
I am not rich enough to remunerate the artist, if any harm happens to
it."

With these words, bowing to the artist, Mr. Greville took the picture
carefully under his arm, and left the shop, Montfort soon following.

"Well, I declare," said the picture framer, when he was left alone,
"artists is queer animils, and no mistake. Neglect 'em, and it makes
'em as mad as a short-horned bull in fly time; coax 'em and pat 'em,
and they lets fly their heels in your face. Seems to me, if I was an
artist, I shouldn't be particular about being a hog, too. There ain't
no sense in it. Now, it beats my notion all to pieces to see how Mr.
Greville could talk so pleasantly and gentlemanly to that dratted
Montfort, and he flyin' into his face all the time like a tarrier dog.
I'd a punched his head for him, I would--if they'd had me up afore the
Sessions for saltin' and batterin'. Consequently it's better to be a
pictur' framer than a pictur' painter. Cause why?--a pictur' framer is
a gentleman, and a pictur' painter is a hog."

There was a good deal of truth in what Mr. Tennant said, mixed up with
a good deal of uncharitableness. But what did he know of the _genus
irritabile vatum_?