She gave the boy an oblong slip of stamped paper.  Evidently a promissory note.  An angel on earth, sent by an inhuman father, to ask a Jew for discount!  Monstrous!

The boy disappeared with the message.

I seized my opportunity of speaking to her.  Don’t ask me what I said!  Never before (or since) have I talked such utter nonsense, with such intense earnestness of purpose and such immeasurable depth of feeling.  Do pray remember what you said yourself, the first time you had the chance of opening your heart to your young lady.  The boy returned before I had half done, and gave her back the odious document.

“Mr. Pickup’s very sorry, miss.  The answer is, No.”

She lost all her lovely color, and sighed, and turned away.  As she pulled down her veil, I saw the tears in her eyes.  Did that piteous spectacle partially deprive me of my senses?  I actually entreated her to let me be of some use—­as if I had been an old friend, with money enough in my pocket to discount the note myself.  She brought me back to my senses with the utmost gentleness.

“I am afraid you forget, sir, that we are strangers.  Good-morning.”

I followed her to the door.  I asked leave to call on her father, and satisfy him about myself and my family connections.  She only answered that her father was too ill to see visitors.  I went out with her on to the landing.  She turned on me sharply for the first time.

“You can see for yourself, sir, that I am in great distress.  I appeal to you, as a gentleman, to spare me.”

If you still doubt whether I was really in love, let the facts speak for themselves.  I hung my head, and let her go.

When I returned alone to the picture-gallery—­when I remembered that I had not even had the wit to improve my opportunity by discovering her name and address—­I did really and seriously ask myself if these were the first symptoms of softening of the brain.  I got up, and sat down again.  I, the most audacious man of my age in London, had behaved like a bashful boy!  Once more I had lost her—­and this time, also, I had nobody but myself to blame for it.

These melancholy meditations were interrupted by the appearance of my friend, the artist, in the picture-gallery.  He approached me confidentially, and spoke in a mysterious whisper.

“Pickup is suspicious,” he said; “and I have had all the difficulty in the world to pave your way smoothly for you at the outset.  However, if you can contrive to make a small Rembrandt, as a specimen, you may consider yourself employed here until further notice.  I am obliged to particularize Rembrandt, because he is the only Old Master disengaged at present.  The professional gentleman who used to do him died the other day in the Fleet—­he had a turn for Rembrandts, and can’t be easily replaced.  Do you think you could step into his shoes?  It’s a peculiar gift, like an ear for music, or a turn for mathematics.  Of course