“If my opinions don’t suit you, Mr. Lisle,” the old man broke out, “and my mode of expressing them displeases you, you know you can easily protect yourself.”

“My dear Mr. Sloane,” said Theodore, “your opinions, as a general thing, interest me deeply, and have never ceased to act beneficially upon the formation of my own.  Your mode of expressing them is always brilliant, and I wouldn’t for the world, after all our pleasant intercourse, separate from you in bitterness.  Only, I repeat, your qualification of my sister’s conduct is perfectly uncalled for.  If you knew her, you would be the first to admit it.”

There was something in Theodore’s look and manner, as he said these words, which puzzled me all the morning.  After dinner, finding myself alone with him, I told him I was glad he was not obliged to go away.  He looked at me with the mysterious smile I have mentioned, thanked me, and fell into meditation.  As this bescribbled chronicle is the record of my follies as well of my hauts faits, I needn’t hesitate to say that for a moment I was a good deal vexed.  What business has this angel of candor to deal in signs and portents, to look unutterable things?  What right has he to do so with me especially, in whom he has always professed an absolute confidence?  Just as I was about to cry out, “Come, my dear fellow, this affectation of mystery has lasted quite long enough—­favor me at last with the result of your cogitations!”—­as I was on the point of thus expressing my impatience of his ominous behavior, the oracle at last addressed itself to utterance.

“You see, my dear Max,” he said, “I can’t, in justice to myself, go away in obedience to the sort of notice that was served on me this morning.  What do you think of my actual footing here?”

Theodore’s actual footing here seems to me impossible; of course I said so.

“No, I assure you it’s not,” he answered.  “I should, on the contrary, feel very uncomfortable to think that I had come away, except by my own choice.  You see a man can’t afford to cheapen himself.  What are you laughing at?”

“I am laughing, in the first place, my dear fellow, to hear on your lips the language of cold calculation; and in the second place, at your odd notion of the process by which a man keeps himself up in the market.”

“I assure you it’s the correct notion.  I came here as a particular favor to Mr. Sloane; it was expressly understood so.  The sort of work was odious to me; I had regularly to break myself in.  I had to trample on my convictions, preferences, prejudices.  I don’t take such things easily; I take them hard; and when once the effort has been made, I can’t consent to have it wasted.  If Mr. Sloane needed me then, he needs me still.  I am ignorant of any change having taken place in his intentions, or in his means of satisfying them.  I came, not to amuse him, but to do a certain work; I hope to remain until the work is completed.  To go away sooner is to make a confession of incapacity which, I protest, costs me too much.  I am too conceited, if you like.”