nd
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."

Verily, there's some virtue left in me yet. I believe I almost blushed.

"Why didn't I know you ten years ago?" the old man went on. "There are
ten years lost."

"Ten years ago I was not worth your knowing," Max remarked.

"But I did know you!" cried the _bonhomme_. "I knew you in knowing your
mother."

Ah! my mother again. When the old man begins that chapter I feel like
telling him to blow out his candle and go to bed.

"At all events," he continued, "we must make the most of the years that
remain. I am a rotten old carcass, but I have no intention of dying. You
won't get tired of me and want to go away?"

"I am devoted to you, sir," I said. "But I must be looking for some
occupation, you know."

"Occupation? bother! I'll give you occupation. I'll give you wages."

"I am afraid that you will want to give me the wages without the work."
And then I declared that I must go up and look at poor Theodore.

The _bonhomme_ still kept my hands. "I wish very much that I could get
you to be as fond of me as you are of poor Theodore."

"Ah, don't talk about fondness, Mr. Sloane. I don't deal much in that
article."

"Don't you like my secretary?"

"Not as he deserves."

"Nor as he likes you, perhaps