Boston terrier portrait in a scroll frame

So Walter worked in pieces. Mornings went to the eyes, brown and wet and rimmed with pink, which Pip gave freely because they were the only part of him that looked anywhere near Walter. Afternoons went to the black of the head, blued where the window light slanted across it, and to the white blaze down the muzzle, which he kept scraping back to bare board until it looked like a clean napkin had been folded there.

The frame came from a carver in Sheffield who sent the scrollwork drawn in pencil first. Mrs Abernethy wanted an ornament at the crown and another at the base, and Walter put the acanthus leaves where she asked, though he thought the whole business fussy. On the last Tuesday Pip opened his mouth in a wide, undignified grin, teeth showing, tongue as pink as a slice of ham, and Walter had the sense to stop fighting him and simply paint it.

When she came to collect the picture she stood a long time in the doorway with her gloves still on. 'He looks as though someone has just told him something lovely,' she said. Walter had lettered the name on the lower cartouche in gold leaf, meaning to ask her what it should say, and had written Pip because the dog answered to nothing else. She didn't correct it. Pip came and leaned his whole weight against her shins, and she said, to the painting rather than to him, 'Yes, all right, you were good.'