What a fool, then,
was I to be lamenting! when I had at last, and for
once, and at the cost of only a few blushes, paid back
a fraction of my debt of gratitude. So that, when I
next met Pinkerton, I took things very lightly; my
father was pleased, and thought the letter very clever,
I told him; for my own part, I had no taste for
publicity; thought the public had no concern with the
artist, only with his art; and though I owned he had
handled it with great consideration, I should take it
as a favour if he never did it again.
"There it is," he said despondingly. "I've hurt you.
You can't deceive me, Loudon. It's the want of tact,
and it's incurable." He sat down, and leaned his head
upon his hand. "I had no advantages when I was young,
you see," he added.
"Not in the least, my dear fellow," said I. "Only the
next time you wish to do me a service, just speak about
my work; leave my wretched person out, and my still
more wretched conversation; and above all," I added,
with an irrepressible shudder, "don't tell them how I
said it! There's that phrase, now: "With a proud, glad
smile.
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