I make a point of always smiling and nodding to him--it keeps my hand in for other enemies.

Good-morning! (I've cast him twice in heavy damages) good-morning, Mr.Dunball.
He bears malice, you see; he won't speak; he's short in the neck, passionate, and four times as fat as he ought to be; he has fought against my amiability for ten mortal years; when he can't fight any longer, he'll die suddenly, and I shall be the innocent cause of it." Mr.Boxsious uttered this fatal prophecy with extraordinary complacency, nodding and smiling out of the window all the time at the unfortunate man who had rashly tried to provoke him.

When his favorite enemy was out of sight, he turned away, and indulged himself in a brisk turn or two up and down the room.

Meanwhile I lifted my canvas on the easel, and was on the point of asking him to sit down, when he assailed me again.
"Now, Mr.Artist," he cried, quickening his walk impatiently, "in the interests of the Town Council, your employers, allow me to ask you for the last time when you are going to begin ?" "And allow me, Mr.Boxsious, in the interest of the Town Council also," said I, "to ask you if your notion of the proper way of sitting for your portrait is to walk about the room!" "Aha! well put--devilish well put!" returned Mr.Boxsious; "that's the only sensible thing you have said since you entered my house; I begin to like you already." With these words he nodded at me approvingly, and jumped into the high chair that I had placed for him with the alacrity of a young man.
"I say, Mr.Artist," he went on, when I had put him into the right position (he insisted on the front view of his face being taken, because the Town Council would get the most for their money in that way), "you don't have many such good jobs as this, do you ?" "Not many," I said.

"I should not be a poor man if commissions for life-size portraits often fell in my way." "You poor!" exclaimed Mr.Boxsious, contemptuously.