He is troubled, too, about Mr. Sloane.  His attitude toward the bonhomme quite passes my comprehension.  It’s the queerest jumble of contraries.  He penetrates him, disapproves of him—­yet respects and admires him.  It all comes of the poor boy’s shrinking New England conscience.  He’s afraid to give his perceptions a fair chance, lest, forsooth, they should look over his neighbor’s wall.  He’ll not understand that he may as well sacrifice the old reprobate for a lamb as for a sheep.  His view of the gentleman, therefore, is a perfect tissue of cobwebs—­a jumble of half-way sorrows, and wire-drawn charities, and hair-breadth ’scapes from utter damnation, and sudden platitudes of generosity—­fit, all of it, to make an angel curse!

“The man’s a perfect egotist and fool,” say I, “but I like him.”  Now Theodore likes him—­or rather wants to like him; but he can’t reconcile it to his self-respect—­fastidious deity!—­to like a fool.  Why the deuce can’t he leave it alone altogether?  It’s a purely practical matter.  He ought to do the duties of his place all the better for having his head clear of officious sentiment.  I don’t believe in disinterested service; and Theodore is too desperately bent on preserving his disinterestedness.  With me it’s different.  I am perfectly free to love the bonhomme—­for a fool.  I’m neither a scribe nor a Pharisee; I am simply a student of the art of life.

And then, Theodore is troubled about his sisters.  He’s afraid he’s not doing his duty by them.  He thinks he ought to be with them—­to be getting a larger salary—­to be teaching his nieces.  I am not versed in such questions.  Perhaps he ought.

May 3d.—­This morning Theodore sent me word that he was ill and unable to get up; upon which I immediately went in to see him.  He had caught cold, was sick and a little feverish.  I urged him to make no attempt to leave his room, and assured him that I would do what I could to reconcile Mr. Sloane to his absence.  This I found an easy matter.  I read to him for a couple of hours, wrote four letters—­one in French—­and then talked for a while—­a good while.  I have done more talking, by the way, in the last fortnight, than in any previous twelve months—­much of it, too, none of the wisest, nor, I may add, of the most superstitiously veracious.  In a little discussion, two or three days ago, with Theodore, I came to the point and let him know that in gossiping with Mr. Sloane I made no scruple, for our common satisfaction, of “coloring” more or less.  My confession gave him “that turn,” as Mrs. Gamp would say, that his present illness may be the result of it.  Nevertheless, poor dear fellow, I trust he will be on his legs to-morrow.  This afternoon, somehow, I found myself really in the humor of talking.  There was something propitious in the circumstances; a hard, cold rain without, a wood-fire in the library, the bonhomme puffing cigarettes in his arm-chair, beside him a portfolio of newly imported prints and photographs, and—­Theodore tucked safely away in bed.  Finally, when I brought our tete-a-tete to a close (taking good care not to overstay my welcome) Mr. Sloane seized me by both hands and honored me with one of his venerable grins.  “Max,” he said—­“you must let me call you Max—­you are the most delightful man I ever knew.”