DeWitt sprang up the staircase of our hotel to his bedroom.

'I should not have forced him,' my father mused. 'Jorian DeWitt has at
times brilliant genius, Richie--in the way of rejoinders, I mean. This is
his happy moment--his one hour's dressing for dinner. I have watched him;
he most thoroughly enjoys it! I am myself a quick or slow dresser, as the
case may be. But to watch Jorian you cannot help entering into his
enjoyment of it. He will have his window with a view of the sunset; there
is his fire, his warmed linen, and his shirt-studs; his bath, his choice
of a dozen things he will or will not wear; the landlord's or host's menu
is up against the looking-glass, and the extremely handsome miniature
likeness of his wife, who is in the madhouse, by a celebrated painter, I
forget his name. Jorian calls this, new birth--you catch his idea? He
throws off the old and is on with the new with a highly hopeful
anticipation. His valet is a scoundrel, but never fails in extracting the
menu from the cook, wherever he may be, and, in fine, is too attentive to
the hour's devotion to be discarded! Poor Jorian. I know no man I pity so
much.'

I conceived him, I confessed, hardly pitiable, though not enviable.

'He has but six hundred a year, and a passion for Burgundy,' said my
father.

We were four at table. The editor came, and his timidity soon wore off in
the warmth of hospitality. He appeared a kind exciteable little man, glad
of his dinner from the first, and in due time proud of his entertainer.
His response to the toast of the Fourth Estate was an apology for its
behaviour to my father. He regretted it; he regretted it. A vinous
speech.

My father heard him out. Addressing him subsequently,

'I would not interrupt you in the delivery of your sentiments,' he said.
'I must, however, man to man, candidly tell you I should have wished to
arrest your expressions of regret. They convey to my mind an idea, that
on receipt of my letter of invitation, you attributed to me a design to
corrupt you. Protest nothing, I beg. Editors are human, after all. Now,
my object is, that as you write of me, you should have some knowledge of
me; and I naturally am interested in one who does me so much honour. The
facts of my life are at your disposal for publication and comment.
Simply, I entreat you, say this one thing of me: I seek for justice, but
I never complain of my fortunes. Providence decides:--that might be the
motto engraven on my