“Mr. Armstrong!”
“Come, come—you began with frankness,
and I’ve only gone on with it. You are
a good-hearted fellow, and ought to be made something
of.”
“At all events, you make something of yourself,
to talk of your own productions as the elixir vitae.”
“You forget that I am in disgrace as well as
yourself on that score; for I have not read a word
of my own since the club began.”
“Then how the devil should I be worse off than
you?”
“I didn’t say you were. I only said
you did your best to place yourself at a disadvantage.
I at least took a part in the affair, although a very
humble one. But depend upon it, a girl like Miss
Cathcart thinks more of mental gifts, than of any
outward advantages which a man may possess; and in
the company of those who think, a fellow’s
good looks don’t go for much. She could
not help measuring you by those other men—and
women too. But you may console yourself with
the reflection that there are plenty of girls, and
pretty ones too, of a very different way of judging;
and for my part you are welcome to the pick of them.”
“You mean to say that I sha’n’t
have Addie?”
“Not in the least. But, come now—do
you think yourself worthy of a girl like that?”
“No. Do you?”
“No. But I should not feel such a hypocrite
if she thought me worthy, as to give her up on that
ground.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“To win her, if I can.”
“Whew!”
“But if you are a gentleman, you will let me
say so myself, and not betray my secret.”
“Damned if I do! Good luck to you!
There’s my hand. I believe you’re
a good fellow after all. I wish I had seen you
ride to hounds. They tell me it’s a sight.”
“Thank you heartily. But what are you going
to do?”
“Go back to the sweet-flowing Thames, and the
dreams of the desk.”
“Well—be a man as well as a gentleman.
Don’t be a fool.”
“Hang it all! I believe it was her money,
after all, I was in love with. Good-bye!”
But the poor fellow looked grave enough as he went
away. And I trust that, before long, he, too,
began to reap some of the good corn that grows on
the wintry fields of disappointment.—I have
my eye upon him; but it is little an old fogie
like me can do with a fellow like Percy.
THE CRUEL PAINTER.
Now to return to the Story-Club.
On the night appointed, we met. And to the delight
of all the rest of us, Harry arrived with a look that
satisfied us that he was to be no defaulter this time.
The look was one of almost nervous uneasiness.
Of course this sprung from anxiety to please Adela—at
least, so I interpreted it. She occupied her
old place on the couch; we all arranged ourselves nearly
as before; and the fire was burning very bright.
Before he began, however, Harry, turning to our host,
said:
