He was pacing up and down in high spirits.

When he and Fenwick were left alone, he went up to the painter and laid an arm across his shoulders.
'Well!--how's the money holding out ?' 'I've got scarcely any left,' said the painter, instinctively moving away.

It might have been seen that he felt himself dependent, and hated to feel it.
'Any more commissions ?' 'I've painted a child up in Grasmere, and a farmer's wife just married.

And Satterthwaite, the butcher, says he'll give me a commission soon.

And there's a clergyman, up Easedale way, wants me to paint his son.' 'Well; and what do you get for these things ?' 'Three pounds--sometimes five,' said the young man, reluctantly.
'A little more than a photograph.' 'Yes.