imself accepted as an authority, somehow, and everybody
looked at his finger as it pointed out Vesuvius. "To come that effect in
a general illumination would require a eye; but to come it with two
dips--why, it's enough to blind him!"

That impostor, pretending not to have heard what was said, now winked to
any extent with both eyes at once, as if the strain upon his sight was
too much, and threw back his long hair--it was very long--as if to cool
his fevered brow. I was watching him doing it, when Henrietta suddenly
whispered, "Oh, Thomas, how horrid you look!" and pulled me out by the
arm.

Remembering Mr. Click's words, I was confused when I retorted, "What do
you mean by horrid?"

"Oh gracious! Why, you looked," said Henrietta, "as if you would have
his blood."

I was going to answer, "So I would, for twopence--from his nose," when I
checked myself and remained silent.

We returned home in silence. Every step of the way, the softer
sentiments that had flowed, ebbed twenty mile an hour. Adapting my
conduct to the ebbing, as I had done to the flowing, I let my arm drop
limp, so as she could scarcely keep hold of it, and I wished her such a
cold good-night at parting, that I keep within the bounds of truth when I
characterise it as a Rasper.

In the course of the next day I received the following document:

"Henrietta informs Thomas that my eyes are open to you. I must ever
wish you well, but walking and us is separated by an unfarmable abyss.
One so malignant to superiority--Oh that look at him!--can never never
conduct

HENRIETTA

P.S.--To the altar."

Yielding to the easiness of my disposition, I went to bed for a week,
after receiving this letter. During the whole of such time, London was
bereft of the usual fruits of my labour. When I resumed it, I found that
Henrietta was married to the artist of Piccadilly.

Did I say to the artist? What fell words were those, expressive of what
a galling hollowness, of what a bitter mockery! I--I--I--am the artist.
I was the real artist of Piccadilly, I was the real artist of the
Waterloo Road, I am the only artist of all those pavement-subjects which
daily and nightly arouse your admiration. I do 'em, and I let 'em out.
The man you behold with the papers of chalks and the rubbers, touching up
the down-strokes of the writing and shading off the salmon, the man you
give the credit to, the man you give the money to, hires--yes! and I liv